


Hope Lost, Hope Regained

by Michelle



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Slavery, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-14
Updated: 2006-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle/pseuds/Michelle
Summary: When hope is lost, has it really abandoned Elrond and his family? Or is it waiting just around the corner?
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue: Hope Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Hope Lost, Hope Regained  
> Author: Michelle  
> Email: michelle [at] waking-vision.com  
> Summary: When hope is lost, has it really abandoned Elrond and his family? Or is it waiting just around the corner?  
> Timeline: TA 2947. Estel is 16 years old.  
> Beta: Lee-Anne and Namarie - thank you both for tackling this story!  
> Rating: T  
> Genre: slavefic, angst  
> Warning: AU, and very much so. This could also be considered a "What if..." story - you will see what I mean later on. There is mention of rape in a later chapter, so be warned.  
> Disclaimer: Poor Prof. Tolkien. I took all his lovely characters and put them through the wringer. But after all is said and done, they still are not mine.  
> Author's Note: There are countless stories in which Legolas ends up as a slave and is saved by Aragorn. But wouldn’t it be fun to turn the tables? Let’s just imagine for a moment...

_It was living, at least. And as long as you are alive, you never know what might still happen._ (Antal Szerb)  


  
~*~

  
**Prologue – Hope Lost**  
  
“We will leave at first light tomorrow,” the first elf said.  
  
“We will ride north again. There are small settlements there we have not visited in years,” a second elf added.  
  
“If that is your wish,” a third answered with a sigh.  
  
Elrond knew it was not his right to questions his sons’ decisions. What they planned was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. It was just that Elrond could not share their hope. It seemed a fool’s errand to him. He had said so, many times in the past. Sometimes he was understanding, sometimes he was demaning – he had approached the problem from every angle. Yet nothing he said could sway his sons.  
  
“Ada,” Elladan tried, “you know we pledged we would find him. Have us not go back on our word.”  
  
“The one you swore to is long dead, Elladan. How much longer will you do this? One year? Ten? One hundred? Would you even recognize him? You will have to give up this fruitless search at one point. You are only avoiding that day. Truly, what chance do you think you have?” Elrond wanted to show them that this search was accomplishing nothing besides destroying them. However, it seemed his sons did not want to hear about probabilities and impossibilities when the stakes were so high.  
  
“You say that as if there is any room for discussion, when instead there is only this one path before us. This is his _life_ he is missing! We will find him. Time is not yet running short,” Elrohir intervened, always the optimist.  
  
Elrond knew he stood no chance. They had held this particular discussion as often as Elladan and Elrohir had ridden out to search for the lost son. At first, he had shared in their faith. But back then, there were fresh tracks to go on. There had been a chance, however slim, that their quarry could be found. Now, there was only the twins’ stubborn determination. They had lost one, but Elrond feared this mad search would cause him to lose two more. The twins were reckless; they tended to see only their goal, not the obstacles in their path. He did not want to lose them to a cause that seemed to lead only to heartache for them all.  
  
He remembered the feeling of shock when Elladan and Elrohir had come home bearing the sad news. Their eyes had been haunted by darkness in a way he had not seen since Celebrían’s last days in Rivendell. They had mounted a search party then, and under the twins’ meticulous eyes every stone and twig in the clearing where it had happened was turned – without result. They followed the faintest trail, yet did not meet with success. Nowadays, though, there was no trail to follow. Elrond did not know what guided his sons, but their urge to ride out again had yet to abate.  
  
“We know you do not approve, Ada,” Elladan said. “But please, do not stop us. There is yet hope. Do not keep us in Rivendell when there is one out there who needs our help.”  
  
Elrond sighed, again. The twins had only been home for barely three weeks, Elladan nursing a slash on his arm and Elrohir constantly fussing over his brother. They had come from the south then, their appearance so foreign that Elrond had hardly recognized them. They were drifting away from him, he knew. However, there was no way to keep them here. They would ride out again, with or without his blessing, and they all knew it.  
  
“My sons, I wish you would reconsider...” He had given up already. This discussion was over.  
  
“There is no need to reconsider,” Elrohir pointed out. “We were not there when we were needed. We will be there now. It is the least we can do.” He paused for a moment. “We will leave tomorrow morning as planned.”  
  
The twins seemed to believe that he did not want _him_ found. And that was where they were wrong. None than Elrond knew better how much depended upon this man. The days on Arda were growing darker. It was nearly imperceptible so far, but to Elrond it seemed as if the bells of doom were tolling ever louder with each day the twins did not return with the one they sought. He wanted him found, as a means to an end, as a trusted warrior against the Dark Lord, as one who could maybe give back light to Arda.  
  
And he wanted him found so his own family could find rest and his own troubled heart could finally let go of the worries it carried each day. Elrond wanted to see his sons laugh again, he wanted to see the empty rooms at the end of the hall occupied once more. He wanted a chance for them all. However, he feared that the twins’ steadfastness would instead cost them the last ounce of happiness they still had.  
  
But they were more than old enough to make their own decisions. Elrond could only stand by and hope for the best: for his sons, for the one for whom they searched, and for himself.  
  
“Safe journey,” he said, his voice heavily laced with defeat. “Come back to me unharmed.” And he embraced them both, knowing it could well be the last time.  
  
The twins went to pack for their journey then. His sons would leave him alone again, nobody knew for how long. They could be gone for weeks or for months. They would send no word and Elrond would be left to wonder whether they had found their deaths in the mountains. And for what? A promise to a dead man, to appease their sense of honour. It was folly.  
  
He feared they would never find him. And he knew it would break his sons.

_TBC_


	2. This Desert Life

**1\. This Desert Life**  
  
So far, his life had been day upon day of misery. Endless days of work were followed by lonely nights where he curled up like a dog, ate the scraps of leftover food and shivered through the cold hours of the night. The metal collar around his neck chafed his skin, but it was never taken off and he had forgotten how it felt to be free of its constant weight. His hands and feet had to be strong and quick. Nobody minded the whiplash scars on his back or the raw skin on his throat. He was just a slave; his masters would not care about the shaggy clothes or the dirt on his face. They were not the most cleanly sort either.  
  
It was all Estel had ever known - misery and despair -, and he wondered if not all human life was like that. When he had been younger, hope had burned bright and warm in his heart. The boy had been so certain that somewhere, somehow, he too could be loved. But now this hope was just a faint glimmer in the his eyes, downcast as they were.  
  
He belonged to a family of three, gruff people journeying the length and width of Middle Earth to buy and sell goods in the human settlements. They had ventured steadily north lately, because business was slow in the southlands.  
  
Marga was a big woman, the many layers of her dress only adding to her sheer volume. She hardly walked, instead preferring to sit on the cart and commanding him about like a queen on her throne. Her voice was deep, but it carried far, and when she sold her goods she drove a hard bargain. Marga had no need for a husband to stand up for her. If customers thought they could fleece her, they would get to know her cunning wit and sharp knife.   
  
Marga hardly ever talked to him beyond the shouted orders of “Slave, bring this” and “Slave, do that”. She did not care much for her slave, if he worked well. If she felt Estel needed to be punished, she would command her son Harte to get out the whip and give him a few lashes. Then her eyes would be glued to Estel’s pained and shivering frame and her cruel gaze would hurt just as much as the whipping.  
  
Harte was a bit older than Estel, but his twenty summers had made him cold and bitter. He seemed unable to stand up to his mother; she held the reins of their little family with an iron grip. But the poor little slave, who had to walk with his back bent and his eyes downcast: he was easy prey and Harte took every chance he got to let Estel feel that he was the weakest link in the chain.  
  
Estel snorted at the thought. Harte was a coward, and a few years back, when the flame of hope had still burned strong in his veins, he would antagonize him, show him that he was not broken. Such foolhardy actions! He had earned neither freedom nor respect that way, only a multitude of scars covering his back. The memory was a bitter one and he had learned his place since then. He strived to be invisible now, a ghost who cared for the horse and prepared the meals.  
  
The first years with Marga and Harte had been trying and he had taken to inviting death whenever he could. He remembered when their cart had crossed a river and he had to walk behind it. The water went up to his hips, but the current was strong and he lost his balance. The waves had closed above him, engulfing him in wet darkness. There had been panic at first, but then Estel saw his mother holding her hand out to him. She was just a shimmering image without any clear lines, because he could not remember her well, but she had smiled and encouraged him to join her. And then, when he had nearly reached her outstretched hand, Harte had hauled his body out of the river and slapped him hard to make him breathe.   
  
That was before Shaya. Marga’s little daughter was all that the shrewd woman was not. The girl was the result of an ill spent night in one of the human settlements, just one more mouth to feed. But to Estel she was salvation. With her five years she was too young to understand the indifference of her mother or the cruelty of her half-brother. She poured her love and adoration on everyone. The only one who desperately wanted to receive it was Estel.  
  
He had held her when she was only a tiny babe and she had said her first word while he had been feeding her. She would come and sit with him while he worked or play with the horse’s tack while he rubbed the old mare dry. She was the only one who bothered to call him by his name. To Marga and Harte he was only “slave”; the word shouted with contempt. To Shaya, he was always “Estel”.  
  
Presently, she was running in circles around him, clapping her hands and singing a song to herself, while Estel prepared the midday meal for his masters. He felt sluggish and tired today. The world seemed slightly out of focus and he needed to concentrate hard on the easy task of stirring the broth. They were in the middle of nowhere and had stopped to rest the ancient horse and grab a bite to eat. Marga used the time to loudly discuss the prospects of selling goods in the northern lands.  
  
“Slave,” Harte bellowed in Estel’s direction, “be quick! I’m hungry!” Estel busied himself to comply. Their supplies were dwindling and it was high time Marga sold some goods, so there was not much in the broth but hot water and a bit of dried meat.  
  
He never tasted the food beforehand. Harte would only beat him for eating before his masters. Deeming the food ready by eyeing it critically, he filled two clay mugs. When he stood to go over to Harte, the world suddenly tilted and the ground seemed to sway beneath his feet. Not prepared, Estel lost his balance and the clay mugs fell to the ground, spilling broth into the soft grass.  
  
There was a moment of utter silence in the little clearing. Shaya had stopped her song and Estel stupidly looked at the broken clay mugs, not comprehending how they had ended up on the ground. And then Harte was in front of him, backhanding him hard enough to drive him to his knees. The blow stunned the boy, but he had more sense than to make a sound of protest. It would only incense the older man. Instead, he stayed on his knees and stared at Harte’s sodden shoes.   
  
“I’m sorry, master,” he ground out, still not looking up. Maybe Harte would lose interest if Estel made himself the smallest target possible.   
  
It was not to be. Harte’s boot shot out with tremendous force, connecting with Estel’s chin and the boy toppled over. Lying on his side, he could see Shaya at the edge of his vision, timid and wide-eyed. He sent her a crooked smile to tell her he was all right, even if he knew those blows would most likely turn into brightly coloured bruises in a few hours time.  
  
Harte’s cold voice floated down to him. “Ye know well enough, we’s low on food. Bet ye just spilled the food for fun. Ye useless, filthy slave. I’ll teach ye manners. Ye’ll walk behind the cart the rest of the day. And now bring me something to eat before I lose me temper.”  
  
“Yes, master,” Estel hurried to comply and scurried away to find some old bread and fruit. His jaw was hurting and he felt the skin swelling under his probing touch.   
  
Once he was at the back of the cart, sifting through their supplies, Shaya came up to him, obviously frightened. So he knelt and gave her a quick hug.  
  
“Estel, you all right?” she asked in a small voice while a hiccup shook her frame.  
  
“Of course, I am. Don’t you worry about me. Now come here and give me a hug!” She looked at him sceptically before throwing herself into his embrace and Estel wondered how long he would still be able to calm her that easily. Sometime soon she would be old enough to understand what was going on around her and his simple reassurances would be useless then.  
  
They stayed like that for a while, Shaya grabbing his shoulders and holding on for dear life, but eventually Estel had to let go of her to prepare Harte’s food or his punishment might contain more than just walking for the rest of the day. He had gotten off lightly, in his opinion. Harte had not beaten him into a bloody pulp and he had not gotten out the whip. As long as he only had to walk behind the cart as punishment, all was well in Estel’s world. If he just did not feel so tired...  
  
Once he had scrambled together a meal, he went over to where Marga and her son were conversing quietly. At least Harte was conversing quietly, Marga’s booming voice could probably be heard on the other side of the mountains. She caught him walking up to them and urged him on.  
  
“Slave, make haste already or we’ll spend the whole day in this cursed place. Leave the food here and be gone.”  
  
Estel was just setting the food on the ground, when Marga grabbed his face. His abused jaw protested at the cruel touch, but her fingers were like the claws of a hawk. Once she had her prey, she never let go. She peered curiously into his eyes and anger showed on her face. She turned to Harte, complaining. “Slave’s got a fever. Curse it all, we’ll need to come out of this batch of bad luck and soon.”  
  
“We’s got no money for a new slave, so this one’ll have to make do,” Harte replied calmly.  
  
So that was what was wrong with him, Estel thought. He was sick. A sick slave did not have a very good outlook on life. He remembered his mother and how gaunt her face had looked before the end. He would share in her fate if he did not pull himself together. If he could not work, they would put him out of his misery and leave him to the carrion birds.   
  
“I can work,” he stuttered and felt his heart beat in his throat. This was all he knew and like a beaten dog he would always come back to his master, tail between his legs.   
  
“Course you can,” she boomed. “You carry your own weight or you’ll regret it. Understand?” And with that she let go of his jaw and shoved him back. “Now get the horse ready so we can get moving.”  
  
The next half hour went by in a blur with Estel breaking up their camp and his masters eating their meals. Once horse and cart were ready, Harte grabbed him by the metal collar around his neck and chained him to the back of the cart. Normally, he would be allowed to sit on the edge of the cart, but today he would have to walk. There was some give in the chain, but a horse moved faster than a human, even an old horse like Tink.   
  
Estel braced himself when the cart started to move. This wasn’t half-bad. He had done this before and he could do it again. Walking behind the cart for an afternoon was better than the other punishments Harte might have dished out, he reminded himself.  
  
However, as the day wore on, his legs started to feel like lead and his eyes burned. He was hot, so hot, and sweat was pouring down his face even though it was only April. His feet were still carrying him, even if he stumbled from time to time, but he lost interest in the importance of walking. His body went on, but his mind drifted. Who cared if he walked on or stopped? Estel certainly did not.   
  
Estel’s wandering mind came back to reality with a snap when the chain suddenly went taut and hauled him forward. He fell awkwardly, trying to cushion his fall with his hands, but when he landed, a sharp pain went through his right wrist before his breath was cut off, because the chain dragged him along by the metal band around his neck. He choked and clasped at the chain, trying desperately to get his feet back under him, and just when he was prepared to give up the fight he managed to stumble back to his feet.  
  
Estel was breathing rapidly, fever and burning eyes forgotten for the moment. With his waning strength he picked up his pace and the chain slacked. He needed to be useful to his masters or his life was over, miserable as it was.  
  
But then Estel noticed what had driven that sharp pain through his hand. He must have landed on a rock or root. Silly way to fall, he chided himself. The right wrist was broken, and badly so. The bone had broken through the skin and stuck out at an odd angle. Instinctively, Estel moved his hand to make sure it was still attached to his arm, but the movement made him nauseous. It looked wrong, the hand dangling from his arm and moving like a puppet on a string. And surely limbs were not supposed to be attached at such odd angles; maybe his hand would fall off at any moment. The blood running down his hand made him squeamish and he felt bile rise in his throat. Still he could not look away - his eyes were drawn to his hand like Marga was drawn to money and the sight made him sick.  
  
He could still move his hand and fingers, even if it felt strange. However, when he experimentally tried to grip his shirt, the pain flared and his fingers flexed uselessly without any real strength left in them. He was useless without his right hand, he thought, and panic overwhelmed him. Sick and useless. Only Shaya would care enough to nurse him back to health, but Shaya was only five.  
  
So this was it. All his misery and despair would come to an end here and now. He tried not to care about his imminent death, after all, what was he looking forward to in his life? But he was young and hope had not yet died, he found.   
  
He fought to keep up with the cart, to show that he was not beaten, but nobody seemed interested in his struggle and soon his fever and wound made him wobbly on his feet and he felt himself lacking the determination to take another step.  
  
Distractedly, Estel felt himself falling again, hitting the ground hard. Instantly, the chain went taut and he was dragged along the stony path. He felt suffocated, the metal collar cutting off his air suddenly. Estel frantically clutched at the chain and collar with his left hand, his right trailing uselessly on the ground. He tried to cry out, but no sound would come.  
  
Every dent in the path painted new bruises on his skin, but he paid the pain no mind. He could not breathe! The small gasps he could take were nowhere near enough to keep his body alert, but before he could feel the panic of suffocation, his head bumped into a large rock forcefully and all went blissfully dark.

~*~

The three on the coach-box heard the muffled sounds of the slave being dragged along, but only Shaya breathed a sigh of relief when Estel obviously got his feet under him again. Her brother and mother paid the commotion no mind, discussing instead the prospects of merchandise in the next Valar-forsaken village.

When Estel fell again and sounds of distress floated up to them, Shaya swallowed hard to keep the tears from coming. Estel was sick, her mother had said so. She would give Shaya hot tea and an extra blanket when she was sick, why did she make Estel walk behind the cart then? She held her breath fearfully, hoping that she would hear the dangle of the chain that would indicate it was slack again.

The opposite happened. There was a hollow bump and then all sounds of struggle ceased. The cart was moving on, obviously dragging a dead weight along and Shaya panicked. She scrambled to the back of the cart and saw Estel’s limp form being dragged along by his throat. Her friend did not seem to mind anymore, his eyes were closed and he gave no sound of protest, even when his left leg caught on a root. She could see blood pouring from the gash. That had to hurt, so why would Estel refuse to wake up?

She used the only weapon she had: her voice. She scrambled back to the front of the cart and started to wail, sobbing into her mother’s bodice, begging her to stop. The adults seemed determined to ignore her, but she only intensified her volume.

Throwing her arms up in defeat, Marga finally gave in. “Harte, see whether the slave is faking it. He’s supposed to walk. He will walk.”

Harte sulked off, angry at the interruption. When he came upon the slave’s prone body, he instantly saw he would be no good. He kicked him in the ribs for good measure, but there was no reaction.

“He won’t be of no use. His wrist’s broken, can’t work with that. No need to drag him along,” he called ahead to Marga.

Curse it, bad luck was following them lately. But then again, this slave had held out longer than most. He had been there for almost ten years. Maybe it was time to be on the lookout for a new one.

Resigned, she grabbed Shaya to keep her from running to the slave and called back to Harte, “Then get the chain off and leave him to the wolves. We’ve got business to do and a long way ahead.” Her words were accompanied by Shaya’s renewed wail.

Harte took off the chain and hauled the slave to the side of the road by his collar. A very sorry sight he was. Little scrapes all over his body, a big lump forming on his forehead, just below his hairline. His right wrist was broken, a useless limb. There was a bleeding gash on his left calf to round the picture off. The boy was on death’s door surely, but Harte might just speed the journey along. He had always enjoyed inflicting pain on this one; he would not let this last chance pass him by. It might even be merciful to just outright kill him instead of leaving him to slowly die in the wilds.

He looked back at the cart and saw that nobody was watching. Marga obviously had her hands full with the little brat. Mhm, he would need to use his bare hands since he had no weapon on him. He could not strangle the boy, because the metal collar was in the way, so he just covered his nose and mouth with his large and dirty hand.

He pressed down in anticipation. Nothing happened at first. He could see the slave’s chest rising and falling; obviously his body was still trying to breathe in fresh air. But he prevented that, he thought in glee while a chuckle shook his body.

Then the slave’s left hand came up weakly and swiped at the object blocking his nose and mouth. It was only a feathery touch against Harte’s strong grip, nothing that could stop him. Finally the boy’s eyes opened to slits, his mind hovering on the edge of awareness. Instead of sliding from blessed unconsciousness right into death without much fuss, the slave’s body was obviously prepared to put up a fight. That was all right with Harte and he pressed down harder. The boy’s eyes fluttered open wide, glazed in fever and pain, and cleared for a moment in sudden recognition. Harte could see betrayal in those orbs, incomprehension and fear. And then something broke in them and they stared up into the sky in wild panic while the slave’s body spasmed under him. In his death’s throes, no doubt.

Harte heard his mother shout impatiently for him and he knew he had to hurry. The slave’s body strained under his larger weight, muscles tensing and slacking. He could see that the boy’s mind was already fleeing and only his body remained to fight. The slave’s eyes had lost their focus, just as his mind had lost all reason. His struggle turned into an uncontrolled trembling and after a minute that lessened as well and then stopped altogether. The slave’s eyes were half-closed now, showing only white. He looked rightly dead and Harte congratulated himself on a deed well done. He took away his hand experimentally and peered into the youth’s face to see whether any change would occur.

No. Rightly dead, indeed. Grinning, he stood back and then went over to the cart. Tink started her tired trot again and slowly the cart moved out of view, leaving the broken body of the slave behind.  


_TBC_

**Chapter End Notes:**  
\- All chapter titles (except for the prologue and epilogue) are album titles. “This Desert Life” is the third Counting Crows album.


	3. Surfacing

**2\. Surfacing**  
  
Legolas knew he was being childish, but he could not help feeling annoyed. He frequently travelled between his home in Mirkwood and the elven haven of Rivendell as a messenger of his father, King Thranduil, or to simply visit his friends who lived in the valley. If need be, he could find his way through the Misty Mountains blindfolded, because he had been on that path so many times. However, this time Lord Elrond had cautioned him to head south first. His scouts had reported large bands of orcs blocking the Old Forest Road between Rivendell and the foothills of the Misty Mountains.  
  
“Ride south for three days and then track back north, circling the orcs,” Elrond had advised. Legolas knew a lone archer could not ride through orc-infested country, but the detour would cost him at least a week. And it nagged at his pride to turn tail and hide.   
  
He was on his third day south now and tried to decide whether to keep to this direction for the rest of the day or start heading eastwards. In the end, he decided to follow the very visible trail for another hour or two. He was supposed to be back in Mirkwood in seven days – only if a Nazgûl came by and offered him a ride would he be able to arrive in time. He would be late in any event. Another two hours on a southward trail would not change that.  
  
“And it is an exceptionally beautiful spring day,” he told his horse, patting the gelding’s neck. “It is the perfect day for a ride.”  
  
The horse agreed, Legolas surmised. Tinnu flicked his ears and neighed approvingly. Legolas laughed out loud at the antics of his horse. The gelding was young and spirited and never shy to voice his opinion - even if it needed some translation. He was of an unusual colour - a very dark grey -, which was the reason for his name. When Legolas had first seen the foal, there had been an instant understanding between the two. They had been inseparable since then.  
  
Seeing Tinnu’s playful mood lightened Legolas’ heart and he decided to forget about this accursed detour and enjoy the spring day instead. April was a month full of surprises, there was no telling when the sun would shine down on Arda in such a fashion again. So Legolas chose to trust Tinnu to follow the trail. He let the reins slacken and lifted his face upwards to catch Anor’s warmth. Legolas closed his eyes in bliss, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His foul mood was quickly vanishing.  
  
They rode like this for a while. Tinnu was trotting along, his tail swishing and his hoofs beating the ground in a regular rhythm and Legolas noticed that his own breath was matching the rhythm of his horse. With his eyes closed, Legolas acknowledged the way his ears picked up all kinds of sounds: A little stream was merrily bubbling away somewhere to his right and a soft gust of wind blew through the young green leaves on the trees. Legolas bathed his face in the sun’s warmth, thankful for its reappearance after a long and cold winter.   
  
Just when Legolas felt Tinnu turn to the left, following a bend in the path, the air about them changed abruptly. The peaceful atmosphere of the forest suddenly had a sad undercurrent. There were whispers on the wind and the branches of the surrounding trees swayed in dismay.  
  
Legolas was instantly alert, opening his eyes and returning to sit straight on his horse. He could not discern what was wrong in this part of the forest, only that something was amiss. He was just about to consider readying his bow for any invisible threat, when his gaze fell onto a lifeless body by the side of the path.   
  
The thought that this could be a trap and a large band of road bandits waited for him behind the treeline was quickly discarded when he came nearer. No bandit, however ingenious, would go to this extent for a little robbery.   
  
There was a boy lying a little off the road, obviously unconscious and obviously the victim of some violent assault. Legolas hurried Tinnu over to the boy and dismounted to check on the lifeless form.  
  
When he knelt by the boy, he instantly noticed the metal collar around his neck. His foul mood was back in full force. He had heard that slavery was still common among certain human cultures, but he had never encountered it himself. It was a despicable custom and Legolas failed to understand how a human could do something so disrespectful to another. This slave had been discarded like an old rag, left by the road to die. It made Legolas sick that a living being would be resigned to such a fate. One so young, and he had only known violence and despair.   
  
Pity grew in his heart at the sight of the pale and injured human. He could not just leave him here. For all he knew, there was nothing but trees around them. Legolas would condemn this human to death if he rode on. He had never had many dealings with humans apart from banqueting with traders from Lake Town who came to visit Mirkwood’s king. He did not care much for their dealings and politics and hurts, but as an elf he had an inborn respect and love for all living things. Leaving the human here would go against everything he was and stood for.  
  
Legolas saw the human’s chest rise and fall and his fingers went to his throat to check his pulse. The degrading metal collar was in the way, but after some probing Legolas could feel a strong, if quick, beat thrumming against his fingertips. Letting his gaze wander he tried to discern what injuries the young one had received.  
  
The most prominent was the broken right wrist. It was an open break, still bleeding sluggishly, that had accumulated a lot of dirt from the road. Tugging at the rags the boy wore, Legolas revealed countless of colourful bruises of various sizes. There was a gash on his left calf that needed to be bandaged, but seemed not too serious otherwise. And when Legolas’s hands checked the boy’s scalp he found an impressive lump.  
  
Concerned, Legolas watched the boy’s face. Through all of his ministrations – even when he had moved the broken wrist -, there had been no reaction from the young human. Fearing a concussion, he carefully pried one of the boy’s eyes open. It was of a very light grey and the orb seemed glassy and almost translucent to Legolas. At least the pupil reacted instantly to the light, so that was a small blessing.   
  
Legolas tapped the boy’s cheek lightly, trying to wake him. He felt the human’s damp skin, hot to the touch, but covered in cold sweat, and surmised that he ran a fever. This would complicate matters since he was not at all prepared to cure human ailments. Legolas was a warrior after all, he could treat battle wounds and keep his charge alive until a healer arrived. But fever and sickness - that was beyond his expertise. However, he had taken up this responsibility, so he would try his best. _Giving up_ was not a term in his vocabulary.  
  
“Come on, wake up,” he encouraged, speaking in a soothing voice. “You are safe now.” But to his dismay nothing happened.  
  
With a sigh, Legolas tried to decide what to do. He could dress the leg wound and bring some relief to all the bruises. But the fever worried him and the broken wrist was beyond his skill. An even deeper sigh followed and he resigned himself to his fate: He would have to take the boy back to Rivendell and into Lord Elrond’s care. However, that would add even more time to his journey home. He would have to write his father and ask his forgiveness. For formality’s sake Thranduil might grumble and rant a bit, but Legolas was certain that his father and king would understand his reasons. He would not expect his son to deny someone help simply to be home on time.  
  
Remembering the stream he had heard a while back, he decided to track back and make camp near the water. He would need plenty of it to clean these wounds. Carefully, he lifted the unresisting boy, gave a short whistle ordering Tinnu to follow, and started to walk back along the trail.  
  
Not five minutes later he spotted the stream he had heard before. After two more minutes of walking, he decided on a spot for their camp and lowered the boy to the ground. Tinnu was standing right next to him, eyeing the unconscious form critically as if to decide whether the newcomer meant his master any harm. The horse bowed his head, nibbling at the boy’s shaggy hair while he breathed in his scent. Legolas knew better than to interfere. Tinnu would not harm the human and he would cooperate much better if he befriended him. So Legolas left his horse to watch over their new travelling companion while he busied himself to build a fire.   
  
The horse finished his ministrations by blowing a breath into the boy’s face as if to see whether he would react. Obviously concerned by the continuing silence from the boy, Tinnu looked at his master, snorting.  
  
Legolas could not help but smile at his determined mount. “I was just about to help him when you came along and interrupted me! Come here and let me unload my packs.” Legolas laid out everything that he would need, silently thanking Lord Elrond for forcing all these healing herbs on him. He did not know much about healing and he probably would never be able to name half of the herbs Lord Elrond had packed for him. But his knowledge would have to be enough to keep the boy alive until they could reach Rivendell.  
  
It was a long-standing tradition that Lord Elrond would kidnap Legolas’ pack the day before he headed home and restock it with everything the prince might need. Sorting through the varied collection of flasks, pans, dried herbs and bandages, Legolas realized that either Elrond had felt a premonition about what might happen on his journey or he counted on Legolas’ luck in finding trouble. Legolas preferred the first possibility, since he might have to feel affronted at the latter.  
  
Eyeing the still unconscious boy, he decided that his clothes had to go. He needed to see what injuries lay hidden beneath. He did not take the time to carefully strip the boy, instead cutting the clothes off of him. The less the human was jostled the better and Legolas would just dress him in his own spare clothes later. The boy’s rags went into the fire, there was no other use for them.  
  
Once the human’s body was revealed Legolas was shocked at his thin frame. Each rib was clearly visible beneath the pallid and sickly skin and his shoulders were bony. There was not an ounce of fat on his body, the skin stretched taut over bone and sinew. These injuries together with the fever would further sap his strength and Legolas hoped the boy had enough willpower to pull through this. Regardless, he would need fattening up as soon as possible.   
  
Trying to start with an injury he felt he could handle, Legolas wrapped the boy in a warm blanket, keeping his left calf free. There was a ragged slash along the side, about four inches long. It did not seem deep, so Legolas decided against stitching it. His stitches came out all uneven anyway and Lord Elrond would give him his raised eyebrow when he saw the poor attempt – something that needed to be avoided at all cost. Legolas began to clean the wound with fresh water from the stream. It was clear and clean, its temperature indicating that it came down from the mountains. The wound began to bleed anew, but that was a good thing. The blood would wash out any dirt that remained inside the gash. Once finished, Legolas filed through his collection of herbs in search of the comfrey ointment, spreading it over the wound and bandaging it tightly.  
  
Looking up from his task, he saw that his charge was still unconscious and had not stirred during his ministrations, while Tinnu stood nearby grazing and shooting him curious looks. Obviously his horse was interested in his progress.   
  
He decided to tend to all the bruises and abrasions next. They were virtually everywhere and if Legolas did not want to use up all his medical supplies at once, he needed to concentrate on the more severe. There was one large and colorful bruise on the boy’s right side and another on his hip. They would probably be the most painful. He found a stash of dried arnica flowers and doused them with boiling water. Carefully, he dabbed at the bruises with a bandage he had dipped in the solution, hoping it would bring some relief to the pain. At least it washed some of the dirt away that clung to the human’s skin. While turning and handling the boy, Legolas’s gaze always came back to the overlapping scars on the boy’s back. He had been whipped, and often. There was no use pondering this now, though, there were much more pressing matters before him.  
  
Now only the broken wrist was left. Legolas sighed. This was way past his expertise. Again he set about to clean the open break. He tried to move the bone experimentally, but soon accepted that he would not be able to help here. Instead, he wrapped the wrist tightly, so the boy would not be able to bend it. Being immobile would hopefully take away some of the pain the wound would no doubt cause once the human woke.  
  
Trying not to jostle the boy too much, he clothed him in his spare tunic and leggings. Legolas was slender himself, but even his clothes hung on the boy. Legolas shook his head. While tending to the human’s injuries the pity he had felt slowly turned into compassion. This young one had been left behind, unwanted and rejected. He deserved a second chance and Legolas would see to it that he lived to get one.  
  
There was nothing else he could do now. The sun was getting low in the sky, so they would stay here for the night. He hoped the boy would wake soon, but even if he slept on they would have to make for Rivendell in the morn. He left the human on his bedroll near the fire and went to Tinnu, taking off the rest of the tack and brushing him down until his coat gleamed in the flickering light of the fire. After tending the boy, this simple task calmed down Legolas’ mind and he was thankful for his horse’s affectionate mood.   
  
The evening was uneventful, but as the night wore on, the boy became restless. After the prolonged unconsciousness from which he could not be roused, this was a step towards waking; at least Legolas hoped so. However, the boy was obviously distressed and his fever rose continually. The elf prepared a tea made of willowbark that he could offer the boy, in case he should wake.  
  
When the human had first started to mumble incoherently, Legolas sat by his side, taking his left hand in the hopes of calming and comforting him with the simply gesture. But even unconscious, the boy stiffened at the touch, afraid and agitated. Legolas had tried several times to offer comfort this way – combing his fingers through the boy’s hair or letting his hand rest on his forehead -, always with the same result: The boy would stiffen and turn away from what he obviously perceived as a threat. Legolas did not feel rejected at that, he just felt sad that this human had unlearned how to accept solace from another.  
  
If his touch could not bring comfort, maybe his voice could. Legolas started to talk, his melodious voice drifting through the night, and told the boy of his home and how he wished the human would feel better soon so he could explore Middle Earth on his own. He told him of Rivendell, telling him they were headed there and his wounds would be healed, because the most knowledgeable healer lived there. Occasionally he would sing and even if he could see that the boy’s face was bathed in sweat, he noted that he looked more relaxed and peaceful. And while he painted a colourful picture of all the things the young human could do once he was healed, Legolas found he wished with all his heart that this vision would come true. And he would gladly protect and shelter his new charge until that day came.  
  
The night was well underway when the boy finally woke. Legolas was just about to tell him how he had met Tinnu, when the boy’s eyes opened a fraction. His face was turned away from Legolas, but the elf could still see the campfire reflected in the glassy orbs. This was his chance to get some liquid into his patient.  
  
He kept his voice even and quiet as to not frighten the boy, when he said, “Friend, you are safe now. Do not fear.”  
  
He could see the boy’s eyes widen in panic while he tried to turn his head, lacking the proper strength, though. Legolas saw feverish eyes turn to him and smiled encouragingly. “Here, drink some of this tea. It will help with your fever.”  
  
The boy just stared at the elf, his mind too confused with fever and pain to contribute to the conversation. However, when Legolas lifted the boy’s head and brought the cup to his lips, he obediently swallowed. Legolas kept on his whispered encouragements and the boy’s eyes remained open until the cup was drained and Legolas let the boy’s head rest on the bedroll again.  
  
When he saw the human’s eyes slip shut, he lightly tapped the boy’s cheek to get his attention. He needed to know, and now! “Do not sleep just yet!”  
  
The boy flinched at the touch, but obediently opened his eyes, the pupils large in the dim light. The lids wavered and Legolas knew he did not have much time.  
  
“What is your name, boy?” he queried and for some reason that had been the right thing to ask. Something flittered in the glazed orbs, some fleeting emotion that looked like hope. Then the boy’s eyes closed, shutting away the expression that had Legolas intrigued.  
  
Before the boy fell back to sleep, Legolas heard him answer clearly, “Estel.”

_TBC_

**Chapter End Notes:**  
\- Chapter title taken from the Sarah McLachlan album “Surfacing”.  
\- Legolas’ horse is a steel grey, meaning he is of a dark grey/silver colour. Tinnu simply means dusk in Sindarin. For the sake of praticality I decided to have Legolas ride with saddle and reins, thus making this movieverse.  
\- Wondering why Estel was not dead after Harte cut off his air? It actually takes quite some time to suffocate someone (up to eight minutes). A person loses consciousness quite quickly, whereas the heart continues to beat strongly. Therefore, Harte would have to continue to cut off Estel’s air a lot longer than he did in order to kill him. Luckily he did not!


	4. Who Can You Trist

**3\. Who Can You Trust**  
  
Estel’s ascent from sleep was a slow and tedious affair. He felt himself floating on the edge of awareness and preferred to stay there for as long as possible. Waking meant going back to being a slave, the weakest link in the chain. It was much safer here. With his eyes closed and his thoughts somewhere between dream and reality, he could wish himself someplace else. He imagined his mother would wake him with a gentle touch and a ready smile. Maybe he should imagine a whole family for himself – a father, and perhaps a brother or a little sister like Shaya. They would live in a small cottage and never would have heard of a thing called slavery. They would live in ignorant bliss, enjoying one day after the other, and Estel could feel loved and secure and wanted.  
  
He tried to prolong this dream, inventing little details, but eventually he emerged from sleep, even if his mind fought his body every step of the way. With his eyes still closed, he could feel pain and weariness radiating through his bones and it took only a few breaths to remember what had happened yesterday. He felt so heavy and beaten, as if he could not lift a finger. The pain was everywhere, wandering from here to there, but it always came back to his right wrist.   
  
His breath hitched when he concentrated on the feeling and it intensified tenfold. Estel tried to take his mind elsewhere, away from his throbbing wrist, but having his eyes closed only helped attune his body to its discomfort. So he decided he needed to properly wake up now. He could not remember how yesterday had ended. He was walking behind the cart and then he fell and then ... something else had happened, something that was hovering at the edge of his memory, something that nearly made its way into his conscious mind, but that always resisted at the last possible moment.  
  
Finally Estel opened his eyes to a very peculiar sight. He was wrapped securely in a blanket, lying next to the fire of a campsite. This in itself was a novelty. It was April, Marga would never allow him the luxury of a blanket this time of the year. Whatever had happened?  
  
And then he saw him. There was a young man standing a few feet away, talking quietly to a beautiful horse in some strange language. The man was tall and slender, with long blond hair. Braids adorned the tidy tresses and his attire spoke of importance and wealth. Something was strange, though. He seemed... otherworldy, for lack of a better world, as if he had stepped into reality from one of Estel’s daydreams of a better life.  
  
Maybe the man had come along when his masters had decided to get rid of him? Maybe he had bought him? This was his chance to prove himself. He would not be discarded again!  
  
He studied the figure intently, boring a hole into his back with his gaze, until the man obviously felt eyes on him and turned. Estel was quick to avert his gaze, it was impolite to stare and for a slave it could be downright lethal.  
  
With his eyes steadfastly on the ground, he only heard his new master’s greeting. “Good morning, Estel.”   
  
His heart skipped a beat at hearing his name. The man had called him by his name! Shaya must have told him. His voice was melodious and without the malice that he was used to from Harte.  
  
Maybe he could hope? After all these years, perhaps here was a kind master that would not whip him when he made a misstep. Maybe this was his chance at something better. He would prove himself, he vowed again. His master would not be sorry that he had bought him.  
  
Therefore he made to sit up, because he could not saddle his master’s horse for him lying around near the fire. He forgot about the pain in his wrist, though, and used both his hands to push himself up. Red hot fire seemed to come alive in his right arm and he could not suppress a hiss, his face turning pale. With his right hand rendered useless, he was bound to fall back onto the bedroll, but suddenly the man was there, his hands steadying him with a sure grip and leading him to sit against a nearby tree.  
  
This was not how he wanted to prove himself. With bowed head and slumped shoulders, he started to apologise for his clumsiness.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, and dared looking up when there was no reaction. He could not read that man, his face was so smooth and serene...  
  
“I can work! I can, I promise,” he hastened to assure, cradling his useless right hand in his left.   
  
“No, no!” his master answered hurriedly and Estel’s hopes fell. “Your wrist is broken, you probably will not be able to put pressure on your leg, your body is bruised and I wonder when you have eaten last. I did not take you with me to make you work. I am going to take you to a place where your wounds will be healed.”  
  
He did not want him to work? What had he bought him for, then?  
  
“I belong to you now,” he stated. _I am yours to do as you please, I’m your possession,_ was what he left unsaid.  
  
“You belong to no one but yourself,” the strange man corrected. “You are free to do whatever you please. I just wish to help you. Your wounds are beyond my skill and I would like to take you to a friend.”   
  
There were so many words in those sentences that Estel had never experienced first hand. _Free, help, friend. Do whatever you please._ The concept enticed him as much as it confused him.  
  
And then the man did something totally unexpected. “Would you like to accompany me?” he asked as if it was the most normal thing to ask your slave for his opinion.  
  
Estel felt what he had wished for, just for a short moment. Wanted. The feeling was soon swallowed by the impact of what was happening to him. The world seemed to move just a bit too fast for him.  
  
Words would not come to him, so he only nodded his consent.   
  
“It is settled then. I promise you, you will like Rivendell. That is the place where I am taking you. But first, you need to drink some more of that tea I gave you last night. And maybe some bread?”  
  
So they had a destination. Rivendell. It sounded like a heavenly place. He was certain he would like it. He would like everything better than Harte’s vicious lashes.  
  
He saw the man going over to his packs and again made to stand. It felt wrong to sit by idly while someone else busied himself. However, the man again refused all help. “You are ill. There is no need to tire yourself out. Just rest, I will bring your breakfast.”  
  
Yes, he was ill. He remembered Marga saying the same. She had spat the words, making them a death sentence. Now however, this man spoke those words with honest care. So different. So new.  
  
He came back with food and tea and Estel relished the taste of the bread. He was not exactly hungry, he found. Probably an effect of being ill, but it felt so good to just sit here, eating and drinking as if he did not have a care in the world.   
  
He became bolder, looking up at the man more frequently now. And then he noticed the ears. They were pointed, the braids even emphasizing the tips. His face looked young, but he did not act like the young men Estel had known. He seemed compassionate and caring and gentle. His eyes twinkled and to Estel it seemed they were the gates to a whole other world. If he just looked hard enough he would see foreign lands and peoples in them. Who was this man?  
  
He could not take another bite, dismally noting that he had not even eaten a third of what had been offered. He feared a rebuke and continued to take small bites without much enthusiasm. The stranger noted, though.  
  
“I know you are not really hungry, but drink up the tea. It will fight the fever. And then we ride.” The man put the cup in his good left hand and went to tidy up the camp without ever expecting an answer from Estel.  
  
A few minutes later, he came over and helped Estel to his feet. He could feel his cool hands on him, guiding and helping. So different from the touches he was used to. These hands were firm, yet tender. He tried to show neither discomfort or pain, but he had to admit that even the few steps over to the enormous horse tired him immensely. He was panting when he reached its flank. The man encouraged him to lean against the horse and grip its mane for support, while he introduced them both.  
  
“Estel, this is Tinnu.” Stroking the horse’s head affectionately, he continued. “Tinnu, this is Estel. He is feeling a bit better today and we will take him back to Rivendell.”  
  
Seeing Estel’s frown, he went to explain. “Tinnu was concerned about your wellbeing. He is happy to see you on your own two feet today.” Noting that he was the center of attention, Tinnu turned his head and Estel could have sworn he saw a spark of understanding in the horse’s eyes.  
  
Legolas went to gather the rest of his gear and left Estel to marvel at the horse. He started to pat Tinnu’s neck, telling him in a quiet voice what a beautiful colour he had. Tinnu was looking back at him in interest, nudging him gently without disrupting his frail balance.   
  
The man’s voice suddenly cut into their forming friendship. “You have a remarkable way with horses, I see. Can you ride?”  
  
“No,” he answered truthfully, “I just used to look after Tink.” Realizing that the man would not know Tink, he added, “My masters’ horse.”  
  
Some emotion crossed the man’s face, but it vanished so quickly that Estel had no time to put a name to it. The man spoke to his horse in that melodious voice again and Tinnu kneeled, making it easier for Estel to mount. The man’s hands were helpful and steadying, but they never lingered and Estel was thankful for that.  
  
Once the man had mounted in front of him, he reached back for Estel’s left hand. “All right, put your left arm around my waist and hold on. We will go slowly, so you need not fear. Tinnu will not let you fall. I will not let you fall.”  
  
His fingers tightened on the man’s shirt and he stiffened when Tinnu made the first few steps. But then he felt his body adjust to the motion and he let go of his death-grip. He made certain his body did not connect with the man’s in any place, not wanting to disturb him.  
  


~*~

Legolas had sat through the night wide awake, pondering the human’s name. It would have been an unusual name even for an elf and he had to admit that in the whole of Mirkwood he did not know one elf bearing the name Estel. For a human it was even less likely. And for a slave boy... it was downright impossible. How had the boy ended up with a name like that? Was it a coincidence? A joke his masters had played on him? Was it fate? For even if it seemed cruel to put _hope_ within reach like that, in the end fate had looked kindly upon Estel. He had been found and he was free now. The alternative – the boy’s dead body prey to carrion birds – was too gruesome to consider.  
  
Their morning had gone quite well, in Legolas’ opinion. It would take the human time to understand concepts like freedom or friendship. Legolas could see in his curious glances that he had questions, many of them, but he was too afraid to ask them. He would talk only the barest of necessities, but Legolas would try his best to get the boy to open up. He just hoped he had impressed on him the fact that he was not a slave anymore. Anything past that would take time.  
  
Legolas could barely feel Estel behind him on Tinnu. The boy made an effort to touch him as little as possible. His left hand was still circling his waist, but the touch was light, barely even there. He could not even feel the boy’s breath on his neck. Estel did not trust him, maybe he would never trust anybody again. The thought was sad, but somehow he did not think that would be Estel’s future. His eyes were not dead, he had not yet given up on life.  
  
In sudden realization Legolas noted that he had never told the boy his name. How could he rekindle Estel’s trust if he did not even know his travel companion’s name? Now was a good time as any to try to start a conversation, they had a long way ahead of them.  
  
“I must apologize,” he started. “In the heat of things I forgot to introduce myself! I am Legolas of Mirkwood, well met.” He turned his head backwards as far as he could to capture the boy’s gaze. It was only polite.   
  
Legolas saw the questions spring up in the boy’s face, but he stayed silent. Again.  
  
“It is all right, you can ask me questions. We have three days of travel ahead of us, I would care for a bit of conversation.”  
  
“It is not my place,” Estel interjected, but Legolas was persistent.   
  
“You are not a slave anymore. I know this is all new for you, but do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. And do you not think our trip will pass more quickly if we have something to talk about?”  
  
Estel was not used to being talked to just for the sake of talking, Legolas could see. But determination came over the human’s face and he plunged right ahead. “Where is Mirkwood?”  
  
“It is across the Misty Mountains, to the east.” Legolas vaguely moved his hand in the direction where his home lay. “I was on my way there when I found you. I know Mirkwood does not sound very inviting, but once it was called Greenwood the Great, the magnificent forest where the woodelves dwelt. Now the shadow has invaded the lands and turns the roads dangerous. The elves linger on, fighting the shadow. Sometimes we win, other times we lose.” There was bitterness in Legolas’ voice.   
  
“Elves?” Estel asked. The word was obviously new to him. Legolas again turned his head – he would probably have a stiff neck come evening – and had to smile. “You have never seen an elf before, have you?”  
  
The boy shook his head. “You have much to learn, Estel, but you are young. Time is on your side.” And then he continued, “I am an elf. We are the first of Ilúvatar’s children. You are a man, one of the secondborn. We are alike and yet we are not.”  
  
Legolas could practically feel the boy staring holes through his pointed ears and could not help but chuckle. “Yes, my ears. They are pointed. Elves have pointed ears.”  
  
“Why?” Estel wanted to know, slowly starting to enjoy their conversation. Legolas marvelled at the naivety of the question, and yet it had been asked in utmost sincerity, like a child’s question. Legolas turned back again, his eyes twinkling with merriment.   
  
“I could just as well ask you why your ears are rounded!”  
  
“Oh,” was Estel’s only answer to that. They rode on for a while without talking, but then Estel took up their conversation again, gaining confidence.   
  
“That place you are taking me, what is it like?”  
  
“Rivendell? It is beautiful. Rivendell lies in a hidden valley where time and hardships do not seem to reach. It is easy to find healing there, the place is peaceful. Well, that is if the sons of Elrond are not there. They tend to cause every kind of mischief. You will like them.” Legolas considered telling Estel more of the Scourge of Rivendell that was Elladan and Elrohir, but decided against it. The twins had changed a lot in the last years. They were not the lighthearted elves they used to be.  
  
“Lord Elrond is the friend I am going to take you to. He is a healer. I hope he can do something for your wrist, I could do no more than bind it tightly. But tell me something about you for a change!”  
  
Estel shrugged. “I don’t know, there is nothing to tell.” In comparison to being an elf his life could hold no interest at all.   
  
“Then let me ask you a question. What about your family? Is there someone you would like me to take you to when your wounds are healed?”  
  
Estel fell quiet at that. “No, my mother died years ago.”  
  
“And your father?”  
  
“I don’t remember him.” Legolas felt saddened at the fact that the boy would have no one to come back to and attempted to give his left hand a squeeze in comfort. It was received with as much apprehension as last night, the boy slipped his hand out of Legolas’ grip, avoiding the contact.  
  
“Who gave you that name? Estel... it is not common among humans.”  
  
“My parents, I guess.” Legolas could tell Estel was growing morose, not enjoying the direction their conversation was taking. However, he had to ask one last question. “Have you always been a slave, Estel? Can you remember a time when you were free?”  
  
The answer was what Legolas had expected, it sounded hollow nonetheless. “I was always what I am now.”  
  
There was nothing else to say after that. Legolas felt that Estel would not answer any more questions to things he preferred not to remember and Estel in turn had lost interest in asking questions about elven realms and pointed ears. They were back to the beginning, riding in silence through the woods at the base of the Misty Mountains, each of them painfully aware of the silence stretching out between them. It was an uncomfortable silence that hung between them like a vile thing, eating up the little trust Estel had found in Legolas with each minute it prevailed.  
  
Legolas felt out of his depth. How could he put the boy at ease, how could he make him understand that he had only his best interests in mind? He should not have asked those questions so soon, but he wanted to understand his new companion. Estel intrigued him. The boy’s life had been full of hardships so far, but he had prevailed. Legolas knew Estel’s wounds had to pain him, but the boy had yet to voice his discomfort. Estel was strong of mind and body, otherwise he would not have survived the poor treatment a slave received. The boy’s determination impressed Legolas, even more so because it seemed to be a trait Estel was not aware of. It would serve him well in the future.   
  
They rode in silence until suddenly Tinnu’s ears pricked up in alarm. At the same time Legolas’ body stiffened and he halted the horse, turning his head to the left and then to the right, listening intently.  
  
Bad luck. It had been risky from the beginning to ride home with all those orcs travelling the lands. Legolas had firmly hoped the wide berth he gave them would be enough to elude the beasts. He had been wrong. Even alone he would be hard-pressed to get past them, but now he had to take Estel into account. He needed to get him to Rivendell, as fast as possible. Estel needed Elrond’s knowledge of healing if he ever wanted to make use of his right hand again.   
  
There were orcs to their right, about ten from what he could hear. It was too risky to outrun them, if the beasts picked up their trail they would bring all their friends along and Legolas and Estel would be doomed. He needed to kill them now and hope they would not be missed by their companions. Cursing under his breath, he dismounted.  
  
Estel, oblivious to the thoughts racing through the elf’s mind, looked in apprehension at Legolas and made to dismount as well.  
  
“No, no,” Legolas whispered urgently. “There are orcs about. Be silent. They need to be killed, lest they pick up our trail and follow us.” He checked his assorted weapons while Estel’s eyes widened.  
  
“You stay on the horse. Here, scoot up.” He helped the boy to sit properly in the saddle. “Grip Tinnu’s hair with your left, do not use the reins. Do not worry, you will not hurt him. You will ride on to Rivendell and I will try to catch up with you. All right?”  
  
There was confusion in the boy’s eyes as well as fear. “All will be well,” Legolas reassured. “Just trust Tinnu. He will safely take you to Rivendell.”   
  
Legolas whispered a few words to his horse and stepped back to give Tinnu room to move on. The boy on the horse’s back looked bewildered and Legolas gave him an encouraging smile before he turned to the right to meet with the orcs.  


_TBC_

**Chapter End Notes:**  
\- Chapter title taken from the Morcheeba album “Who Can you Trust”.


	5. Downward Spiral

**4\. Downward Spiral**   
  


Tinnu was trotting along a narrow path Estel could hardly make out. He did not entirely trust the horse to actually find Rivendell (he seemed to be a smart horse, but he was a _horse_ after all), but he hoped they would not have to go far before Legolas caught up with them.  
  
Estel had feared Legolas would send him away when he had suddenly dismounted. He had obviously displeased his mast... - whatever he was supposed to call the elf – with his answers and Legolas wanted to get rid of him. It had not turned out quite that way in the end, but Estel had been sent away nonetheless. He was alone with only a horse for company, somewhere in the wilderness, while Legolas was fighting beasts with the many assorted weapons he had seen on him. Also alone.  
  
Also alone! What if the orcs killed Legolas while Estel hurried away to safety? What if he was injured and could not find the strength to catch up with them? He would be left behind in the wilds to die. That was not the way to repay the elf for his help and Estel had promised himself he would prove himself useful.   
  
However, Legolas had told him to go on, how could he disobey the elf’s orders? He had taken him in, had tended his wounds, he had even shared his food with Estel. The least he could do was respect his wishes, was it not?  
  
However, he had also said that Estel belonged to no one now, not even Legolas. _You can do whatever you please,_ that was what Legolas had said. Did he want to travel to Rivendell alone and leave Legolas to his fate? Was that truly his wish?  
  
Why had the elf to be so confusing? He had told him what to do, yet he had told him he could do whatever he wanted. Which was it? Which was what Legolas expected of him? Was not the fact that Estel was thinking about this at all indication enough that he did not want to be here? He had promised Legolas would not be sorry that he had taken him along. It was time to make true on that promise.  
  
Once Estel had made up his mind, determination took over and he did not waver in his decision again. His left hand in Tinnu’s mane, he urgently begged the horse to understand his need to backtrack and find their companion.   
  
“Please, Tinnu, we have to get back to Legolas! He may be in trouble and it would not be right if we were to escape while he fights alone.”  
  
Estel was prepared to beg the horse, but it was not necessary. Tinnu obviously shared Estel’s opinion on being sent away. He was the horse of an elf after all, he would not shy away from a fight. Estel felt Tinnu turn around and pick a quicker pace and the boy was hard pressed to stay atop the big horse. But Tinnu knew his rider was inexperienced and wounded and took care not to jostle his charge too much.  
  
Estel recognized the spot in which Legolas and he had parted ways. Tinnu had stopped and waited for the boy to dismount, which was quite a difficult affair with one useless hand and one nearly useless leg. Maybe following Legolas had not been such a grand idea after all... Still, there was no going back now.   
  
Leaning on Tinnu for support they slowly made their way in the direction Legolas had taken off to. Estel was only along for the ride since Tinnu seemed to know exactly where his master was. Only a little time later Estel could hear the sound of metal clashing against metal. There were grunts and sounds of pain. It was entirely frightening. He went on and then peered through the bushes. In a little clearing, under a dark sky heavy with rainclouds, Legolas was holding off two ugly creatures with his two curved blades. The sight stirred something in Estel, some hidden memory, long forgotten. He had not the time to ponder this any longer, since the battle went awry for Legolas. Some of the creatures lay dead, some slain by arrow, some by sword. The last two were determined to kill the elf, whose two silver blades glinted deadly pale in the obscure light. The knives flashed and moved seamlessly, quicker than Estel’s eyes could follow, and the elf moved between the two orcs as if he was dancing. It was beautiful in a gruesome way and even when Legolas killed one of the orcs and blackish blood gushed from its stomach Estel stood mesmerized by the sight.   
  
The last orc, maddened by its companions’ deaths, went at Legolas with brute force and strength. Estel saw Legolas parry the first few swings effortlessly, but even his inexperienced eye could see that the elf was tired. He needed to do something, distract the orc maybe. But he had no weapon, what to use?  
  
His eyes went to the forest floor until he found a branch that was thick enough to be used as a bat. He heard a gasp that could only come from the elf and Estel saw Legolas go down, the orc towering above him, raising his scimitar for the killing blow.  
  
Forgetting the broken wrist that had been sending sharp pains through his body since he had woken this morning, he grabbed the branch tightly and ran to join the fray as fast as his limp would let him. Estel saw Legolas’ eyes go wide when he came up behind the orc and let his branch fall down on its back with a yell, putting all the force he could muster into the blow.  
  
The orc staggered, forwards and backwards, not quite sure whether it should fall unconscious or not. In the end it rallied and turned, furious, onto this new threat and backhanded Estel with such force that his grip on the branch faltered and he went down.  
  
However, his desperate act had given Legolas enough time to gain his feet and now the elf was attacking again, slashing and hacking, infuriated beyond measure. Estel just sat there, transfixed and hovering between shock over his feat and pain from his hand, when Legolas finally managed to dispatch the last orc.  
  
Looking at the carnage around him with an inscrutable expression, Estel felt something tug at his heart again.  
  
“I’ve seen this before,” he muttered, not even aware he had spoken aloud. He was roused from his reverie when he realized that Legolas’ face was hovering in his line of vision, the elf’s blue eyes worried and his mouth in a tight line.  
  
“Estel,” he called, shaking the boy lightly, “are you all right? Did the orc hurt you? Estel, answer me!”  
  
“Yes. I mean, no. I’m all right,” Estel answered, trying to get his bearings. Why did Legolas seem to be angry?  
  
The elf just gave him a stern gaze, gently taking up the boy’s right hand at which Estel paled. The rush of battle had numbed him to the hurts of his body, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the relentless needles of pain came back with renewed force. Every limb, joint and muscle seemed to come alive at the same moment, screaming its agony, and Legolas’ face became a muted blur of colour while Estel instinctively stiffened at his body’s discomfort. He tried to breathe through the pain, but all he managed were short pants.  
  
“All right, I see,” Legolas only said. “Let me have a look at your injuries before we ride further. I fear you have not done them any good with your charge.” Estel blinked to clear his vision. When Legolas’ face came back into focus he found that he still could not read the elf.  
  
He was helped to a tree trunk and leaned against it with a sigh, trying to sit as still as possible as to not aggravate any of his various hurts. Meanwhile, Tinnu had joined them again and Legolas was searching through his many packs for bandages and water. When he sat down to rebandage Estel’s hand the boy spoke. “Are you angry, Legolas?”  
  
The elf looked up sharply. “No!” he cried. “I mean, no, of course not,” he said with a little more calm. “That was a very brave thing you did, Estel. You saved my life.”  
  
And suddenly Estel understood what being free meant. It meant to save and be saved in return. It meant to give and to receive, and to do it gracefully. A smile broke out on his face when he answered. “And you saved mine. I understand now. You told me to do whatever I please and that is what I did. Thank you. It was good advice.”  
  
“I see,” was all the elf said to that. “We understand each other then,” and he returned Estel’s smile with one of his own. They sat there silently for a while, amidst the dead orcs, Tinnu grazing at the edge of their vision, and waited until the pain in Estel’s wrist lessened to an endurable amount. This time the silence was a companionable one and to Estel it was one of the most peaceful moments of his life. Orcs and all.  
  


~*~

  
After their encounter with the orcs Estel became gradually worse. It had been late afternoon when Legolas and Estel had reunited in a clearing full of corpses and for a fleeting moment Legolas had considered the possibility of just making camp and letting the boy rest. He looked shaken either from his unexpected adventure or his act of bravery and could surely use all the rest he could get. In the end, though, Legolas decided to travel on. It would do Estel good to rest now, but it would do him even better if he could lie in a soft bed in Rivendell, with Lord Elrond tending his injuries. They needed to reach their destination as soon as possible.  
  
They sat on Tinnu like before – Legolas in front and Estel behind him, his left arm around the elf’s waist. Legolas noticed how the boy’s hand was gripping him more firmly than before, the touch was not as timid as it had been in the morning. And when he felt the boy come closer, his body leaning flush against Legolas’ back and his head resting between his shoulderblades, he was glad that Estel had found a measure of trust in him. Yet he stayed silent, not wanting to scare him away again.  
  
He was surprised at how content he felt to have Estel leaning on him like this. It felt like the intimacy of unconditional trust, something Legolas had not felt in so long with anyone but his father. He had kept to himself for centuries now, for fear of losing another loved one. However, now he wondered whether this had not been the coward’s way out. He liked to be needed like this, to be able to offer comfort to another. To care for his charge seemed to open his heart, and Legolas found it was not something he regretted.  
  
The elf still rode on when the sun had all but vanished and the land was covered in darkness and shadows. The urgency to reach Rivendell rose with each breath the boy behind him took. Where the boy’s need for closeness had felt like a cry for comfort and human warmth, the air about him had now changed and Legolas could feel the boy’s pain and exhaustion coming off him in waves. Never did he complain or ask for rest, but still Legolas knew they would have to stop for the night soon. So when they came across a secluded spot in the forest, Legolas halted Tinnu and dismounted.  
  
The elf saw Estel slump forward once his travel companion was gone, and the boy was dazed when Legolas helped him off the horse. He had taken a turn for the worse, a blind man could see that. The fever was back and a fine sheen of sweat covered Estel’s waxen skin. His eyes, glassy and open wide, shone like two bright stars in the moonlight, but did not take much interest in what was going on. Legolas, alarmed at this change, let Estel rest on his bedroll again, covered him in his blanket and set about to start a fire.  
  
The boy made random comments, mumbling almost unintelligibly, while Legolas looked for the willowbark tea and prepared a cup. However, all of the elf’s soothing replies went unanswered in return. It seemed the boy was talking to himself, mumbling aloud what was running through his mind at that moment and soon Legolas gave up trying to draw him into a conversation.   
  
He sat next to his charge with the tea and a bit of bread and noted that Estel’s eyes took a while until they recognized him. The boy smiled at him, but it came out tired and not at all convincing.   
  
“Estel,” Legolas tried to rouse him a little more, letting his hand rest – carefully – on the boy’s forehead. The human did not shy away this time, they were making progress.  
  
“I have some tea for you. You are running a fever again, probably because you overexerted yourself going after that orc.” Legolas was not at all certain whether Estel followed his words, but at the last sentence his eyes lit up in memory of his brave deed.  
  
“The tea will lower your fever, so you might sleep. But first, take a bit of bread, please.” He knew it was a gamble, the boy would probably be far from hungry. He fed Estel like a small child, but it took only a few bites until the human refused to eat any more. It was better than nothing in any event. The tea went down much more smoothly and was followed by a cup of water, since Estel seemed to be thirsty. It was to be expected, feverish as he was.  
  
Legolas got as much sleep this night as he had gotten the night before. He nodded off a few times, but every time there was as much as a hitched breath from Estel he was wide awake, fearing the fever would rise again. There was no question about what caused the boy’s condition. When he had checked the right wrist after their battle, the wound had looked gruesome. The skin around the protruding bone was red and inflamed, the wrist swollen badly. Just from the looks of it, Legolas could tell it had to hurt beyond description. He could not imagine how Estel had managed to hold onto a tree branch a few hours earlier.   
  
The human’s body tried to heal, but how could it when the bone was sticking out of the flesh? Estel’s body was fighting, but even though the boy was certainly no stranger to pain and hardships given his past, he could not hold out forever. Rivendell became a recurring theme in the elf’s thoughts. He had to get there. Fast, or all hope would be lost.   
  
Every time Estel woke, Legolas would try to get him to drink. He would bathe his heated forehead with water and sit nearby, giving comfort as best as he was able. They made it through the night, but Estel would not fight any evil creatures this day.  
  
When morning came, the boy was still fevered, but he was also beyond what pain he could endure. Legolas had silently marvelled at the boy’s determination to not show his discomfort. Not once had he complained about his wrist or his other injuries. Now though, he was past that point. For one, he did not entirely waken, his fever keeping his mind just a hair’s breadth away from awareness. His eyes were open, but unseeing. He would obey Legolas’ commands to drink, but not react in any other way. That is, until Legolas tried to move the boy. The slightest move of his hand sent Estel reeling. At Legolas’ touch he gave a piercing cry of unadulterated agony and then fell back into his state of half-sleep.   
  
Legolas was shocked. They would not be able to ride like this. Estel was past the point where he could swallow his pain and his cries and they still had two days ahead of them. He decided to dig through his pack of healing herbs once again, hoping to find something that would dull Estel’s senses at least partially to the pain he was feeling.  
  
He was in luck. The herb would make Estel drowsy, but he would not be any talkative company today anyway. It was better he slept through their ride painlessly, than being awake for it while in constant agony.   
  
Estel drank this cup of tea as compliantly as he had the others, either trusting the elf or not caring anymore what happened to him. When the tea began to take effect Legolas could tell by the way Estel seemed to sink into the bedroll, his strained muscles relaxing and his eyes actually becoming clearer – at least for the moment. There was an almost inaudible “Thank you” from Estel, a testament to the pain he had suffered until now, before the boy turned silent and withdrawn. Legolas used the reprieve and prepared to leave, and Estel did not give one cry of pain when he was helped onto the horse.  
  
The hours ticked by slowly and Legolas was very aware of the weight against his back. The boy’s breathing was deep, yet he was not entirely asleep. From time to time the head between his shoulderblades would move or he would feel Estel mumble something against his tunic, yet he was never lucid enough to actually talk with Legolas. The elf kept feeding him the herb to keep the pain away and ease his journey, but his panic was steadily rising.  
  
When he stopped Tinnu for their night’s rest and carried a sweat-drenched Estel to his bedroll, the boy’s eyes were half-lidded and unseeing. Legolas was certain the boy would not live through the night. But the elf had not counted on the stubbornness of humans. He could all but see Estel holding on to life with a determined grip, his right hand bandaged and useless beside him, his left hand held securely by the elf at his side.  
  
Estel lived to see another dawn, even if he was not conscious enough to actually enjoy it. Throughout the night, Legolas had vowed to never doubt the boy’s strength again. He had suspected from the beginning that Estel had a well of vigor at his disposal, but now the boy’s sheer will to live – even under the most dire circumstances – astounded and impressed the elf. Human life was so brief, he thought bitterly, and Legolas assumed it caused their spark of life to burn hot and bright.  
  
In the morning the three of them set out for the last leg of their journey. Estel was leaning against Legolas’ back, his arm held tightly by the elf who rode steadily on, counting the hours until their arrival and looking out for the first landmarks that would be familiar to him.   


_TBC_

**Chapter End Notes:**  
\- Chapter title taken from the Nine Inch Nails album “Downward Spiral”.


	6. Feels Like Home

**5\. Feels Like Home**  
  
Lord Elrond of Rivendell had been restless for a few days now, ever since Legolas had left for Mirkwood. It was not exactly that he was worried for the prince’s safety because of the orc activity in the area. It was more a constant shift in his mood, going from hopeful to anxious and back again like a ship on stormy seas. He did not know what to make of it, he only knew that _something_ would happen and it was likely to involve Legolas. So Elrond had haunted the halls of the Last Homely House like a ghost, sleeping even less than was usual for him, and looking to the east, where the Misty Mountains loomed, as if he could make out Legolas in the far distance.   
  
Rivendell held its breath, at least it seemed that way to Elrond. The air in the valley was stale and heavy as if a storm were just about to break. The weather was fair, though, but Elrond waited for a fresh wind to hasten through the lands nonetheless.   
  
Therefore, he was not exactly surprised when, on the sixth day after Legolas’ departure, his sentries informed him that a rider was heading towards Rivendell. There was still plenty of time until the unexpected guest would arrive, but Elrond found that he was unable to concentrate on his correspondence, and instead waited with bated breath for what this new arrival might bring.   
  
He heard the horse’s hooves clank on the cobblestones only moments before he saw Legolas. He was – for once – unharmed, if weary, and for a split second Elrond could not fathom what had prompted Legolas to return to Rivendell. Only when the Mirkwood Prince rode up to him could he see another figure seated on the horse, dressed in elvish clothes Elrond was certain he had seen on Legolas before.   
  
It was a young human, sitting behind Legolas and leaning against the elf’s back in exhaustion. His left arm circled the prince and his head rested comfortably between Legolas’ shoulderblades with his eyes closed. He looked tattered and ragged and even asleep the lines of pain in his face did not vanish.  
  
Elrond noted the lean frame, bordering on thin, the wavy dark hair that hung about his head in sweaty streaks and when the human opened his eyes to slits, because he had noticed the horse beneath them had stopped, Elrond saw a flash of light grey before they closed again. A spark of hope flared to life in his heart at the sight of the human, a spark he believed had been trampled out long ago. The spark grew and became a bright light within Elrond until he bid his heart to stop hammering in his chest.   
  
False hopes. So many of them during the years. This was no different.  
  
He must have stood rooted to the spot, because the next thing he became aware of was Legolas, who miraculously managed to simultaneously dismount and keep his firm grip on the human. Remembering his obligations as host and healer, he stepped up to the younger elf to help him get the human off the horse. Legolas was faster, though.  
  
“I will carry him to the Houses of Healing. I think he will be calmer that way, but he needs your healing hands,” Legolas implored. “Now,” he mouthed as to not alarm the semi-conscious human and was off to the healing wing, leaving a baffled Elrond behind to follow.  
  
So Legolas had taken in a wounded stray? There were enough human settlements in the area, therefore the human must be bad off for Legolas to forego his journey home. He hurried after the elven prince, who all but flew to the Houses of Healing, and directed him to an empty bed in the large room housing the wounded.  
  
Elrond took in the human’s sweat covered face, his pale complexion, the bandaged hand and leg, and knew this would take some time. With steady hands he started to strip the young one of his clothes and took off the bandages while he shot Legolas a look that clearly said, Talk.  
  
“I found him three days ago, his wrist is badly broken. There is a slash on his calf, but that is healing nicely. He has bruises all over, though I do not know what caused them and he has been running a fever ever since I found him. I gave him herbs for the fever and the pain.”  
  
“That is why he is so unresponsive?” Elrond asked. The human had opened his eyes again when he had noticed the activity around him, and his gaze was trailing from one spot to the next as if none of his surroundings could hold his interest for long. He did not seem at all fazed by his strange and new lodgings.  
  
“What is his name?” Elrond asked of Legolas.  
  
When Legolas did not answer right away, Elrond looked up to see the prince’s mouth curled in a mischievous smile. “You will not believe me when I tell you,” he answered. The prince paused for dramatic effect: “His name is Estel.”  
  
Lord Elrond of Rivendell was not often caught unawares, but such an uncommon name for a human certainly warranted a little surprise. He managed to limit his reaction to raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “Estel?” Legolas only nodded in confirmation.  
  
“All right then, Estel,” Elrond mumbled to himself and tried to catch the human’s wandering gaze.  
  
“Estel,” he called and when that did not draw the human’s attention he called again. “Estel, look at me!” At the sound of his name the young human’s eyes sluggishly searched for the sound of the voice. Elrond could see the boy’s struggle for coherent thought, but it was not to be. Estel tried to focus on the elven lord, but succeeded only partially, his gaze slipping away as soon as it had found Elrond’s face. The healer was not deterred, the human had acknowledged his presence. It was safe to proceed without startling him.  
  
“Yes, just like that,” he encouraged the boy’s continued failing attempts at bringing the world into focus. “I am Elrond. I will see to your wounds now. Then you can rest and I promise you, you will feel better in no time at all.” He gave a reassuring smile when he saw his patient sigh and sink into the mattress like a wanderer after a long journey.   
  
“Legolas, you can refresh yourself if you want. I will come to you once I am done here.” Legolas looked like he had not slept in days. The usually tidy prince was rumpled and weary, so Elrond thought his suggestion justified. Only when the human’s head turned to Legolas with a silent plea in his eyes did Elrond notice that the boy’s left hand had found its way into Legolas’ larger one somehow. He was gripping Estel’s hand tightly as if he could infuse the boy with strength through his touch alone. And maybe he was doing just that, Elrond mused. The young one seemed to be hanging on by a fine thread. Who was to say whether it was not actually Legolas’ presence that made all the difference?  
  
“Legolas,” came a faint sound from the bed, just in time with Legolas’ hushed reassurance. “Do not worry, Estel, I will stay here. Do not fear, Elrond will not hurt you. I promised you he would help you, remember?”  
  
The boy calmed at that, falling back into his half-asleep state while Elrond bustled around him to set wrongs to rights. Estel never even stirred when Elrond tended the leg wound, praising Legolas’ attempts at cleaning and bandaging the injury as he went along. He never reacted when Elrond gave a low whistle at the colorful bruises covering most of his body, but started to breathe easier when the smells of ointment wafted through the air and were eventually applied to most of his skin. Elrond moved and turned the human’s body as to not overlook any injury, and there was no way his perceptive eyes could have missed the prominent scars on Estel’s back. He did not comment though, choosing not to upset the human by a callous remark. However, his eyes wandered to the metal collar around Estel’s neck and then sought Legolas, who averted his eyes in shame. None of the elves could understand a practice like this.  
  
Even when Elrond finally took up the heavily bandaged right hand and strapped it to a little side table, Estel followed the proceedings as if the angrily swollen limb was not part of his body. His gaze landed on his right hand and stayed there, but to Elrond it seemed as if the human could not bring himself to care anymore. The hand was is terrible shape as it was, it would take all of his expertise to heal it to a degree that Estel might use it again.  
  
“You are right-handed?” he asked to bring the boy back to them. When he only received a blank stare, he elaborated. “You mostly use your right hand? When you work or eat?” A tired nod was his answer. “I will do all I can for your hand, I promise you.” That garnered not much of a reaction, but the human was conscious enough to feel it when he started to work on the hand. The pain would be excruciating. Nothing he wished on one so young.  
  
“He needs to sleep through this, he will not be able to bear the pain otherwise, weak as he is.” Elrond went for a little flask and a piece of cloth and came back to the bed, making sure flask and cloth were clearly visible to Estel.  
  
“Estel, you would hurt too much if I tended your hand now. I will put some of this liquid on this cloth,” he accompanied his words by lifting first the flask, then the cloth, “and put the cloth over your nose and mouth. It might smell a little queer, but I want you to breathe deeply. It will make you sleepy and you will not feel the pain from your hand.”  
  
The human had followed the movement of flask and cloth with tired and red-rimmed eyes, and made no objection to Elrond’s plan. Out of the corner of his eyes the elf lord saw Legolas tighten his grip on the human’s hand as a silent promise that all was well. He did as he had said, emptied a good amount of the flask’s content onto the piece of cloth and then approached Estel slowly as to not startle him.  
  
All went smoothly until the cloth covered the human’s mouth and nose, seemingly hindering his breathing. There was a muffled protest, and his eyes opened wide while Elrond’s left hand flew to Estel’s forehead to keep his head steady. The human pressed his head into the mattress in an attempt to get away from this new threat and Elrond could see the muscles in the boy’s left arm strain where he gripped Legolas so hard that the skin on the elf’s hand turned white. Panicked, the human drew in one, two, three short breaths until the liquid did its work and his eyes rolled back, leaving only white before his lids closed. The whole ordeal had only taken a few moments and now Estel was breathing deeply, his hand limp in Legolas’ firm grasp.   
  
Elrond saw the way Legolas’ eyes were fixed on the human’s wrist and advised, “You might want to look elsewhere, Legolas. Setting the wrist will not be an agreeable sight.”   
  
Yet, Legolas never averted his gaze when Elrond started to shift and move the bone in Estel’s hand. Elrond had been wrong in his assumption. The sight was not the worst of it. The sound of bone grinding against bone sent shivers down his spine.  
  
Once Elrond had decided the bone was in its right place, he bandaged the hand again tightly and then placed both his hands on the broken wrist. Time around them came to a standstill while Elrond concentrated all of his ability on the human’s hand, willing the fracture to close and heal without complication.  
  
“I have done all I can,” he said after taking his hands away and rubbing them absentmindedly. “Let us hope the wrist will heal, so he might use his hand again. It was an unfortunate break in any event.”  
  
Elrond regarded the human thoughtfully for a moment, finally able to take a good look at him without searching for an injury, and then added, mostly to himself, “He looks so much like him.” The words had slipped out unguarded, an extension of his thoughts and they were out before he could check his tongue.  
  
Legolas’ interest was peaked. “Like who?”  
  
Elrond sighed, not at all certain he wanted to discuss this subject. “Like the one we lost so long ago. The Dúnadan. He looks just like Arathorn when he was this age. It is uncanny.”  
  
“You mean, this could be Arathorn’s son? The one the twins have been searching for so long?”   
  
“It is just wishful thinking. Dark hair and grey eyes are nothing that belongs to the Dúnedain alone. My eyes are probably playing tricks on me and I am weary of waiting for the lost son to come home. I have lost hope of that happening long ago.”  
  
“But the twins,” Legolas interjected, “they are searching for him still. They are searching for him right now!”  
  
“Elladan and Elrohir are driven by their friendship with Arathorn. They will not give up until they know either way. It is not only Celebrían’s fate they avenge now when they ride out to slay orcs. It is his fate as well. They found his body amidst a countless number of dead rangers. All of his company had been slain, just his wife and son were missing. They have sworn to find them. They will not go back on their word.” The topic always made his heart heavy, and not only because the Chieftain of the Dúnedain had been lost.  
  
“However, let us not talk of such sad tales now. I am curious. How did you come across this human?”  
  
“There is not much to tell,” Legolas answered, “because I do not know much myself. I found him a three day’s ride south of here, lying unconscious and feverish by the side of the road. You have seen the collar around his neck, he obviously was a slave. I would guess his masters took a punishment too far and believed him damaged beyond repair. He had been left behind like garbage. Since I knew I could not do anything for his hand I decided to bring him here.”  
  
“What do you know about him?”  
  
“Nothing much. I tried to get him to talk, but it is obvious he does not remember much himself. He did not like my prying questions. I think he has always been a slave, he cannot remember ever being free. And he has no family left.”  
  
“Then he will be welcome here as long as he so desires. He has been dealt a cruel fate so far, he will be in need of a home.” Elrond looked down to the human who was sleeping peacefully, his face finally free of pain. He looked even younger than before.  
  
“I will ask one of the healers to sit with him through the night. Your usual rooms are ready, of course. I know you will want to write your father.”   
  
“Yes, but I would rather stay here. Estel will be afraid if he wakes to the sight of someone who is unknown to him. He will be calmer if he sees a familiar face upon waking.”  
  
Elrond smiled at the protectiveness in Legolas’ voice. It had been long since the prince had taken an interest in another, always keeping others at arm’s length after his mother’s death, for fear they might be taken from him just as she had. It would do him good to open his heart a little, Elrond decided.  
  
“Of course you can stay. I will have someone bring you quill and parchment. And I will send the smith up to do something about that collar while Estel is still asleep. I am certain he will be glad to see the thing gone.”  
  


~*~

  
The night ticked away slowly but peacefully. The smith came and went, gasping at the poor soul who was forced to wear such heavy metal around his neck. Now that Estel’s neck was bare, it revealed bruises and abrasions from where the collar had moved against tender skin. It would need time to heal, just as Estel needed time to heal – body and soul. Legolas hoped the missing collar would convince the boy further that no one meant to take his freedom from him.  
  
Legolas wrote the letter to his father, explaining all that had transpired and asking forgiveness for the fact that he had decided to stay on in Rivendell for a time. He could not think of leaving now. He wanted to be there for Estel, at least until the boy had settled and found a home here. He did not want to abandon the him as his masters had done. So he sat through the night watching Estel breathe in an even rhythm – in and out, in and out. It was a soothing sight and he felt himself slip away into dreams from time to time. With the dawn of the new day he was wide awake, though. He had always been an early riser, even for an elf.  
  
Legolas was surprised when Estel woke, it was early yet, but then again he had been asleep since early evening, Elrond’s sleep medication slowly fading and giving way to a natural sleep. Now the boy’s eyes opened and he looked upon his surroundings with a clear mind for the first time. There was wonder and awe and thankfulness when his gaze fell upon Legolas.  
  
“Good morning, Estel. How do you feel?”  
  
“Tired,” the boy answered, “but the pain in my hand is gone.” It was the first time while being fully conscious that he admitted that his injuries pained him, a fact that was not lost on Legolas. During their journey Estel had not made one complaint, at least not until he had slipped so far into fever and shock that his admissions of pain had escaped him unchecked.  
  
“That is good then. Lord Elrond did his best. Now we just have to wait and see.”  
  
“Legolas?”  
  
“Yes, Estel?”  
  
“Are we really in Rivendell?” the boy asked, needing to make certain.  
  
“Yes, we are. Look to your right!”  
  
And that was what Estel did. The room had a huge picture window, to give the healers enough light to work and to give the ailing a sight that would cheer them. The window looked to the east, overlooking the valley with its intricate elven houses. There were magnificent waterfalls coming down the hills and above it all the new sun was rising in a rainbow of colours, making Rivendell sparkle like a jewel placed at the base of the Misty Mountains.   
  
Legolas could see Estel’s enraptured gaze at the beauty that was before him. “If you want, you can call this home from now on. You are welcome to stay for as long as you like.”   
  
Legolas could see from the surprised and shocked look on Estel’s face that the human had not anticipated such hospitality. Tears started to stream down the boy’s face and his gaze wavered between the vista of Rivendell and Legolas as if he could not decide where the larger salvation lay.   
  
He nodded, answering with a simple, “Yes, I would like that.” However, the relief and gratitude in his eyes said more than the timid words.

_TBC_

**Chapter End Notes:**  
\- Title of the chapter taken from the Norah Jones album “Feels Like Home”.


	7. Almost Happy

**6\. Almost Happy**  
  
Estel was not exactly certain how long he had been in this room in Rivendell. The first few days he had been mostly asleep, only waking when elves came in to bring him food and water or to check his wounds. He might have been frightened of the doting interest his hosts seemed to have in him, had not Legolas been constantly there. Estel could not remember waking to find the elf’s chair empty. Legolas would be reading in an old tome or writing or dozing, but he was always right next to the bed. The elf would have a smile ready for him, feed him tea or broth, or tell him tales of his new home until he fell asleep again.  
  
Yes, his new home. The journey to Rivendell was a haze in Estel’s mind, but he knew that he had only fleetingly wondered in which direction his life would turn now. He had been too preoccupied with just surviving, no thought was spared as to where he would turn after he was healed. And now the question did not arise either, Lord Elrond had made certain of it. Estel had been offered to stay here, right on the first morning, and it felt as if the gates to heaven had finally been opened to him. He felt thankful and content and revelled in the feeling that nothing else was required of him than simply lying on his back – something that he quickly got used to. He fell asleep and woke to the hope that no one would take this chance from him.  
  
Only during the last few days had Estel been awake for longer periods of time. And always his first look would go to the picture window to make certain that he was still in Rivendell, where elves gave you sweets and fluffed your cushions so you would be comfortable.   
  
When he had awoken this morning he had been alone in the room. Legolas’ chair was abandoned and for a short moment Estel’s heart raced with the fear that the elves had finally decided not to house a filthy slave in their beautiful room.  
  
Legolas’ voice came to Estel, repeating in his mind what the elf had said a dozen times in the last few days. “I care not whether you are slave or prince. You are free to start your life anew. I would be honoured if there will be a place for me in it. I would be honoured if you could one day call me friend.”  
  
No, Legolas would not go back on his word. He had never lied to Estel thus far, surely he would not start now. But where was the elf?  
  
As if on cue the door to the room opened and an elf stepped in. Estel’s face fell just a little when he noticed it was not Legolas but Elrond who had come to visit. The healer was never anything but polite and gentle, but still Estel felt intimidated. The elf radiated strength and authority and Estel fought the urge to avert his gaze every time Elrond looked him in the eyes.  
  
“Good morning, Estel,” Elrond greeted, collecting some instruments and then coming to sit in the chair Legolas normally occupied. “I came to see to your wrist.”  
  
“Good morning, my Lord.” Estel would have bowed had he not been flat on his back. He had heard Legolas address Elrond this way, so he could do no less.  
  
“Now now, penneth. I have told you time and again there is no reason to call me Lord.”  
  
“Penneth?” Estel asked, the word foreign and yet enticing to his tongue. Sometimes, when they thought him asleep, Elrond and Legolas would talk in their own melodious language. Sindarin it was called, Legolas had once explained to him. Estel loved to simply listen to their voices drifting on the air like a long forgotten song.   
  
“It means ‘young one’. It has been long since someone this young walked the halls of this house. I am glad you will be staying with us and I have something to show you. But first, let me have a look at your hand.”  
  
Estel’s wounds were healing as they should, Elrond had assured him of this. The bruises on his body were changing colours - from black to purple, from purple to green, from green to yellow – and with each change it hurt less to lie on them. The bump on his forehead had all but vanished and the slash on his leg hurt, but only if he moved the limb. That only left his hand, and Estel could not fail to notice the frown Lord Elrond seemed to acquire every time he tended the wrist. The elf had explained to him that it was a complicated break that needed a lot of time to heal. Estel fervently wished Lord Elrond’s healing abilities were as fabled as Legolas had made them to be. Now that there was a future for him, he did not wish to be deprived of the use of his right hand.  
  
Elrond came daily to see to his hand. It was always the same procedure: First, Elrond would wash his hands in a little basin across the room. He would then sit down next to the bed and just wait for a few minutes. At least it looked like waiting to Estel, the elf had explained he needed that time to concentrate. After that he always placed his hands next to the break, never on the wound itself. Most of the time, Elrond closed his eyes and lowered his head while silence descended upon the room. Estel could hear the elf’s deep and concentrated breathing and more often than not he found himself matching Elrond’s breathing pattern. After a while Estel felt warmth spreading in his hand, radiating outwards from where Elrond’s hands touched his wrist. The pain that lingered in the hand since Elrond had decided to forego his medicinal herbs vanished as soon as the elf’s hands touched Estel. Instead, a pleasant tingling feeling spread into his fingertips and wandered up his arm and the whole limb started to feel heavy and tired. It was relaxing, this quiet time when Elrond saw to his hand. Sometimes he would close his eyes to better experience the sensation. It was like nothing he had ever felt before.  
  
Before long Elrond roused himself and ended the contact. Estel floated on the feeling of warmth and security and debated whether he should just give in and fall asleep. Elrond had wanted to show him something, though. And he still had no idea where Legolas was. Yes, that was the most important question.  
  
“Lord Elrond, where is Legolas?” His voice was not entirely steady and he loathed how dependant he sounded.   
  
“I know you have gotten used to seeing Legolas beside your bed. He has spent the last ten days in that chair watching over you. I had to forcefully remove him from the room so that he might get some sleep himself. Elves can endure a lot, but even they need a bed from time to time.”  
  
“Oh,” was all Estel could say to that. He had never thought about Legolas’ comfort. His shame must have shown on his face, because Elrond intervened.  
  
“Do not worry yourself. You have been very ill and I know you drew comfort from Legolas’ presence. He just needs a long rest on a flat surface and I am certain he will be back here in no time. Not that he will find you here, mind you!” Elrond added with a wink that was most unelven.  
  
Estel tried not to be alarmed at the last sentence. It worked, partially.  
  
“Why?” he asked, only half joking. “Are you going to throw me out of the valley?”  
  
“Oh no, penneth!” Elrond affirmed. “Never fear. I was just thinking: These are the healing rooms and while they are comfortable, I know to be in them is also very boring. Since you will be living with us, I thought you would like to have your own rooms. Would you like that?”  
  
“My own rooms?” Estel did not know what he had expected, but to be presented with his own rooms came as a surprise.  
  
“Yes, your own rooms. How about having a look at them?”  
  
“Now?” This was all coming as a bit of a shock.  
  
“Yes, now. I think you are well enough to say goodbye to the healing wing.” The healer’s critical gaze had Estel pinned to bed. “That is, if you do not prefer to stay here,” he added. Estel shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words. In response, Elrond helped him to sit up and get his feet on the ground.

~*~

  
The Houses of Healing were far from the private quarters of the Peredhil family and after half of the way Elrond had to take Estel’s arm, because the boy’s strength had been seriously depleted by his fever. His breathing was labored and his steps faltered more often, but Elrond saw the determination in the young one’s eyes, so he kept silent and led them on.  
  
He pointed to different doors and hallways explaining where they led – the kitchen, the Hall of Fire, his own study, the twins’ rooms - until they finally came upon the end of the hallway. There were two doors, one on the left and one on the right side.  
  
“These are Legolas’ quarters whenever he is in Rivendell,” Elrond said, pointing to the left door. “He is probably still asleep, so let us not disturb him. You can wake him later when it is time for dinner.”  
  
With a flourish, he swept out his arm in the direction of the right door and adopted an official voice that was betrayed by the twinkle in his eye. “And this, my dear Estel, will be your room.” Seeing the boy hesitate, he encouraged, “Go on, open the door!”  
  
Elrond had been uncertain whether he should really give away these rooms. Maybe his sons were right and there was still a chance that their rightful owner might return to them. He had debated long and hard, sitting in the very room Estel was now entering, trying to decide whether to go forward or go on dwelling in the past. But as he now saw Estel’s wondrous gaze when he opened the door, Elrond knew in his heart he had come to the right decision. These rooms needed to be lived in. Someone needed to drive out the sadness that lingered in them.  
  
Elrond found himself drawn to the boy, some part of his heart caused him to be extra-gentle when tending Estel’s wounds. If he had to be honest with himself, he was afraid what he would find should he explore the source of those feelings. Estel was so young, about the same age Arathorn’s son would be. And even though he was painfully thin and still looked tired and exhausted from his recent brush with death, Elrond saw the fire in those grey eyes, saw determination and strength. And in the dark of night, when he lay awake in bed, he found himself thinking of what could be, if only... Those were dangerous thoughts, but with hope before him like that, how could he resist thinking them? Giving the boy these rooms might quiet the voices that kept him awake at night.  
  
He saw Estel gape at the interior. The quarters were quite large and befitting of a lord, because young men of status had lived in them. The living room was filled with chairs of intricate elven design and was dominated by a large desk. A wild disarray of writing utensils was scattered on its surface. There was a table, a large wardrobe and shelves along the wall that held trinkets, books and small drawings. The high window led out to a private balcony and to the left was the door to the bedroom. The bed was freshly made, of course, the bedsheets a crisp white and a vase of spring flowers on the night table. The rooms were always maintained, but Elrond had made certain they were airy and inviting today.  
  
He observed Estel taking in all the details and to his dismay the boy’s face fell. “What is wrong, penneth? Are these rooms not to your liking?”  
  
Estel would not look at him, instead he studied the small number of pictures that lined the wall. “No, they are beautiful! I have never seen anything like it.”  
  
“But?” Elrond encouraged when Estel fell silent.   
  
“But someone lives here!” As if he had known, Estel opened the wardrobe to find it full of shirts and leggings and robes and cloaks. “These rooms look like their owner has just left and will be back in a few days. I cannot take these rooms from him!”   
  
Elrond could see that it crushed the boy to turn down the rooms, but at the same time he was amazed at his perceptiveness.  
  
“These rooms are yours, I promise you. Why would you think someone else lives in them?” He led the boy to one of the chairs, so he would not need to stand on his still weak leg.  
  
“All the little things,” Estel shrugged. “The papers on the desk, there is writing on some of them. The little figurines on the shelf. They don’t fit with the rest of the room. Someone has placed them there.”  
  
Elrond looked at the items Estel meant and suddenly the past came rushing back to him. Too many memories lingered here, and too many of them were painful.  
  
“These rooms have been empty for more than twenty years now,” Elrond explained. “They housed distant kin of mine, men born to lead the Rangers. They would live in Rivendell for a while and study lore or warcraft or the healing arts. The last of that line of men is lost to us, therefore the rooms are unoccupied. He has been missing for so long now, the chance of his homecoming is slim. And even should he find his way here now, there are other rooms. This one will be yours, and yours alone. No one can take it from you now.”  
  
Elrond could see that Estel understood only half of what he was telling him. He knew Legolas had told him about the immortality of elves, but the boy still had problems grasping the concept. How could he possibly understand that generations upon generations of his brother’s kin had lived in these rooms at one time or other? Young as he was he could not understand what it meant to Elrond to give these quarters away now.   
  
“Estel,” he started again. “These rooms are very dear to me. They have housed very special people. However, they are a window into the past, they remind me of what was and what is lost. These rooms need a future, someone needs to live in them.”   
  
He took a deep breath. “I have offered you to stay here, you know that. I offer you these rooms as I offer you my affection and my love. This is my way to welcome you to Rivendell. If you so desire you may call this house your home. For as long as you like.”  
  
Estel surprised him then. The boy had always been a picture of politeness. Now he threw himself at Elrond and the elf had just enough time to see the silver streaks of tears on the boy’s face. He sobbed into the lord’s robe, mumbling silently.   
  
“Now, now, Estel. There is no reason to cry. What is it, penneth?”  
  
There was more mumbling until Estel composed himself as much as possible. “This is all happening so fast! I was a slave. And now you offer me the rooms of a lord. It’s just... I have done nothing to deserve this. The rooms are beautiful, but I don’t deserve them.” He was crying again.  
  
“Hush, penneth. I know it is hard for you to understand now, but I will tell you as long as you need to hear it. You are not a slave and you deserve these rooms. I know you feel obligated to Legolas, because he saved you from certain death. But you have given in return. You have awoken feelings in him I feared were long buried. He cares for you when he normally recoils from deep affection. He is protective of you when he normally is a loner. You have given, and I have a feeling it is special gift. You could give to my family. You could give to my sons who are restless and weary. And you could give to me since I am without hope.”  
  
Elrond paused to gauge from Estel’s reaction whether he had lost him somewhere along the way. Those things were difficult to say, but he needed to say them this once.  
  
“Will you do that, Estel? Long has it been since laughter has been heard in these quarters. They have seen too much heartache during the years. You could bring life and cheer back to them. Will you do that?” He saw Estel’s gaze wander again and sweep over the furniture. He looked out of the window and then finally at Elrond. His eyes were different suddenly, their depth shining with love and affection and gratitude.  
  
“Yes,” was all he said before he again sought out Elrond’s strong embrace. They sat like this for countless minutes and when they finally let go of each other, a bond was formed.  
  


~*~

Just as Elrond had suggested, Estel woke Legolas for dinner that day. He knocked at the prince’s door and together they descended to the lower level of the house where the Peredhil family usually ate. It quickly turned into a tradition that Estel would fetch the prince for dinner. The kitchen staff had declared it their highest priority to nurse the young adan back to health and so it was that Estel grew steadily stronger and finally accepted that he was in Rivendell to stay.   
  
His days were filled. Once Estel’s leg did not pain him anymore, Legolas selected one of the elven horses from the stable, a gentle old mare named Gil, and took him on rides through the valley. He taught Estel to trot and to canter and even though his right hand was still heavily bandaged and therefore useless, Estel found joy in their rides. He could not brush Gil down or care for her properly with only his left hand, but he became more and more confident as soon as he was on her back. Even the horse seemed to enjoy her holiday from the boring retirement in Rivendell’s stables.  
  
When they were not riding, Estel discovered his new home. Lord Elrond had told him he was free to venture wherever he pleased, and finally losing his shyness, Estel took Elrond up on his word. He would walk in the gardens and explore secret trails around the house. There were forgotten rooms in the Last Homely House that just waited to have their secrets discovered.  
  
Sometimes he would watch Legolas spar with Glorfindel. Legolas’ twin knives would flash in the afternoon sun and Glorfindel’s impressive sword would make the lord look intimidating. The blades were sharp and the elves’ moves swift, and still none of them ever drew blood from the other. Estel had seen brawls between drunken humans when Marga had led them to a town, but their clumsy efforts were nothing in contrast to the deadly dance the elves performed. It was an art, beautiful even in its danger. Estel longed to participate and to hold one of those weapons, and after begging Glorfindel shamelessly for two days, the lord had let out a hearty laugh and caved in. He showed Estel two easy attacks and parries with a light practice sword, and even though Estel had to try them with his left hand, Glorfindel praised his remarkable talent and promised he would instruct Estel as soon as his hand was sufficiently healed. Estel beamed with pride for the rest of the day, telling everyone who wanted to hear (and everyone else, too) about his achievement. It had only been a practice weapon, not even sharp, but he had felt secure, empowered, himself, while he had held it.  
  
Estel also felt much more comfortable in Elrond’s company since the day he had shown him his rooms. Maybe a great elven lord was not someone to fear, after all. Elrond had proved that he always had a kind word for Estel, always took a minute if Estel needed him, and the boy was thankful. Living in Rivendell could be a bit overwhelming at times... It was not lost on Estel that Elrond took it upon himself to educate him. He invited Estel to accompany him to the herb garden and excelled in explaining the healing properties of different plants. He would sit with Legolas and Estel in the Hall of Fire in the evenings and bring one of the old tomes Estel had seen in the library to read from it. Two weeks after moving into his rooms, Estel could distinguish most common letters and read simple sentences. Soon he could write his own name in common and the elven language – even if the writing was spidery since he did not seem to be able to control his left hand accordingly. He had also learned his first Sindarin words. To practice he would greet every elf he met politely, wish him or her a nice day or ask simple questions. The Rivendell elves had soon taken a liking to the inquisitive boy and always answered with indulgent smiles.  
  
Estel’s days were filled and he felt more and more at home. His fate had taken a sharp turn, filling him with awed thankfulness whenever he thought of what might have befallen him had not Legolas found him. He would be dead, his body rotting away on some Valar-forsaken road in the Misty Mountains. He tried not to think of it, the sheer luck he had encountered that day humbled him. Rivendell was a dream come true. His whole life had turned into a dream. An adventurous, pleasant dream.  
  
Yes, his days in Rivendell were filled to the brim with agreeable tasks. His nights, however were less pleasant.  
  


~*~

_  
hands on him carrying him gentle whispers in his ear but he can’t understand some commotion behind him shouting and the snorts of horses but he can’t see and the one carrying him puts him down there’s underbrush and he’s told to hide in the thicket not make a noise and now he sees a woman smiling at him making shushing noises because he’s crying calling for his mommy not to leave tells him to be a brave little boy and he will be for her kisses him on the forehead hideous creatures flood into the clearing and he sees all cowering there mouth a thin line to keep from crying his uncles fall horses scream the creatures laugh evilly can’t see his mother but his father is over there and then falls he can see the arrow blood his father on the ground he makes a sound then can’t help it one of the creatures turns finds him he’s horrified his eyes tightly closed don’t look then it’s not there but he feels its hands and his mother comes and screams and fights clutches at the thing desperately and his father still on the ground and all uncles and the ground thick with blood and he’s not there not there noooooooo...  
_

_TBC_

**Chapter End Notes:**  
\- Chapter Title taken from the K’s Choice album “Almost Happy”  
\- The scene in which Elrond tends Estel’s hand is inspired by Reiki, a Japanese healing method that channels energy through the hands of the healer.  
\- It says in the Silmarillion: “... and the house of Elrond was a refuge for the weary and the oppressed, and a treasury of good counsel and wise lore. In that house were harboured the Heirs of Isildur, in childhood and old age, because of the kinship of their blood with Elrond himself, and because he knew in his wisdom that one should come of their line to whom a great part was appointed in the last deeds of that Age. And until that time came the shards of Elendil's sword were given into the keeping of Elrond, when the days of the Dúnedain darkened and they became a wandering people.” (Silmarillion, Chapter “Of the Rings of Power”, thanks to Estelcontar for providing the quote!) I assumed that if generations upon generations of Isildur’s heirs lived in Rivendell at one point in their lives, they would have their own quarters. And a lot of things (memorabilia, if you like) would be accumulated over the years.

 **Translations:**  
penneth – young one   
adan – man


	8. Break the Cycle

**7\. Break The Cycle**  
  
Legolas had known for quite some time now that Estel was suffering from nightmares. Their rooms were next to each other after all, and there was not much that escaped the elf. Whether Estel’s dreams had always been haunted, whether it was their encounter with orcs on their way to Rivendell, or whether it was simply the fact that the young human’s mind had finally calmed down enough to think of other things than pure survival – Legolas did not know. He had waited for Estel to come to him, confide in him, but the boy had done no such thing so far. _He probably fears we would think him weak,_ Legolas thought, disdained. Estel was cheerful and happy during the days, but how he fared at night, Legolas could only guess by the mumbled cries that carried across the hallway.  
  
The elf returned to his rooms late that night, having sat in the Hall of Fire together with Elrond, pouring over a game of Aranotyalië. It was said that the game’s origin laid in Gondolin and that Glorfindel hat introduced it to the elves of Rivendell. Elrond, who obviously had had countless years of practice, was a strong opponent and a fierce tactician who had stolen most of Legolas’ pieces. However, having grown up near Dol Guldur, Legolas was used to fighting losing battles and he had held out for hours. Only when midnight was nearing did Elrond finally manage to beat the younger elf. Legolas demanded a rematch for the following night and retired to his rooms.  
  
Walking through the hallway he could hear quiet whimpers from Estel’s room. The sounds were muffled by the walls, but Legolas’ sharp hearing could make them out nonetheless. He stood in front of Estel’s rooms undecided for a moment, and then entered quietly. He had waited in vain for the boy to make his problem known. He called himself Estel’s friend and as such he would help him, whether the boy desired help or not.  
  
He went straight for the bedroom and could barely find Estel in the huge bed. The sheets were tangled even though, when he finally made out the form of his friend in the dim light, Legolas could detect no movement from him. He was not thrashing while caught in a nightmare, he was not kicking the sheets. Instead Estel was lying on his side, curled into a ball. His eyes were moving rapidly underneath the tightly closed eyelids. His left hand grasped the coverlet and occasionally a small sound of distress would leave Estel’s mouth. The boy was dreaming and he was not fighting what he saw. Instead he was made to suffer what his mind showed him in his nightmare.  
  
Legolas crouched down beside the bed, pried Estel’s hand from the blanket and laid his other hand on the boy’s forehead. It was slick with sweat.  
  
“Estel, wake up. You are dreaming,” he encouraged, keeping his voice steady and low. Estel was grasping his hand now instead of the blanket, but he made no sign of waking.  
  
“Estel,” Legolas tried again. “Wake up! You are safe in Rivendell, there is no need to linger with sad memories.” His cool hand stroked Estel’s forehead and Legolas leaned forward to repeat his entreaty right into Estel’s ear.   
  
Maybe it was Legolas’ voice or Estel suddenly felt someone else near, but he woke with a start, a scream on his lips.  
  
Legolas saw the panicked expression and was quick to calm his friend. “Shh, all is well. You had a nightmare, I thought it better to wake you.”  
  
Estel stared at him for a moment and then his eyes took in the room, the furniture, the slightly open window and he relaxed when he comprehended where he was. He was nearly crushing Legolas’ hand in his while seeking comfort. The elf gathered the boy in his arms and held him for a while in an awkward position, half on the bed, half off it. He felt Estel’s breaths slow as his stiff body finally relaxed into the embrace.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into Legolas’ shoulder, not yet ready to let go of the elf.  
  
“Whatever are you sorry for, Estel?” Legolas asked, truly puzzled.   
  
“That I can’t let go of the past. I tried. The present is so beautiful. I never knew life could be like this, and I want to enjoy it. But at night the past comes back to haunt me and I can’t stop it.”  
  
Estel’s head was still buried in Legolas’ shoulder and the elf suspected the boy was only able to voice these thoughts because Legolas did not look at him. “What were you dreaming of?” he asked tentatively.   
  
“I don’t remember. Only bits and pieces. When I wake I only remember the dread and fear I felt, but I’m never certain why I felt those things. Something happens in those dreams,” he said, his voice taking on a note of frustration, “but I don’t know what.”  
  
“You never really told me, Estel,” Legolas tried, because he and Elrond had decided to let the boy’s past lie until he was ready to speak of it. “You never told me what you remember about your family.”  
  
Estel let go of Legolas then and sat on the bed, scooting back to the headboard and gathering the blankets around him. He looked at Legolas expectantly and then at the empty space on the huge bed beside him. Legolas took up the silent invitation and came to sit right next to the human. They sat shoulder to shoulder, and Legolas hoped the touch would show his support more than words could. Minutes ticked by without Estel speaking and when Legolas had just come to accept that Estel’s courage to speak of his family had left him again, the boy opened his mouth.  
  
“I don’t remember my father. I try, but there is nothing. Instead, I remember my mother dying. I don’t recall her face, only her eyes before she closed them. I don’t exactly know how old I was, but I was young. We were with a landowner somewhere south. He had large fields and a lot of slaves to work those fields. I don’t remember much about that time, but the image of the slaves’ bent backs while they work on those fields is clear in my mind for some reason. My mother worked in the house, though. Cooking, cleaning. I guess, at least, I don’t really know what she did. I don’t know why I was allowed to stay. I didn’t work back then, I was just there.” Estel shrugged, as if he was still amazed that someone would just let a small boy be.  
  
“I think she fell sick. We lived in this dank hole of a room. She had been coughing for a long time. When we went to sleep that night, she kissed me and looked at me and then she said something.” Estel frowned and Legolas turned his head to look at the boy.  
  
“I don’t remember what it was, something about me, about my name.” He shook his head. “She did not wake the next day. Our master came in, infuriated. Spat at me that I had killed her. Other slaves came and took her away. I don’t know where to. I was sold a few days later.” Estel grew quiet again.  
  
Legolas was confused. “Why would he accuse _you_ to have killed her?”   
  
Estel just shrugged, a helpless gesture. Legolas could see that Estel’s memory was sketchy at best, he had been too young at the time to remember the events properly. Legolas wondered what really had happened. What had his mother said to him?   
  
“What about your father? Do you remember how you came to be in that place?”  
  
“Nothing,” Estel sighed, suddenly seeming exhausted. “Maybe I always lived there. And if so, maybe that landowner...” He fell silent, leaving the sentence unfinished. Legolas had a suspicion what Estel had been about to say and it made him feel sick. “I don’t know,” Estel ended this train of thought. He shook his head again, resigned.  
  
“I try so hard to just enjoy being here,” he said. “And I do. But these nightmares, I think they’re trying to tell me something. Yet I can never remember when I wake.”  
  
Legolas laid his arm around Estel’s shoulders and Estel immediately leant into the embrace. “Maybe Lord Elrond will know what to do. Perhaps he can help you remember. Do you want me to speak with him?”  
  
He looked down at the boy and could see his indecision. There was darkness in Estel’s past, death and violence and heartache. Legolas would understand if Estel never wanted to touch on those things. However, the dreams were haunting him. Perhaps it was better for Estel to confront what had happened to him. Then he could truly start anew, into a hopefully brighter future.  
  
Legolas could see Estel thinking, probably the same things that went through his own mind. Then the boy again buried his head in Legolas’ shoulder and mumbled. “Yes, I would like that.”  
  
The answer made Legolas proud, he had expected no less of his young friend.  
  


~*~

  
Legolas decided to bring up the topic of Estel’s nightmares during his rematch with Elrond the following day. Part of him hoped the serious topic would divert Elrond’s attention from the Aranotyalië board. Maybe then Legolas would stand a chance of winning. If he was being truthful with himself though, he had to admit that Elrond was a much better player than he. Of course he would never say so in the presence of the elf lord.  
  
Comfortably sitting in the Hall of Fire, the chess board between them, Elrond was just taking Legolas’ second mûmakil and he saw his hopes for winning dwindle. He decided to bring up his request now, before Elrond set his eyes on Legolas’ queen.  
  
“I need to speak with you about Estel,” he started, garnering Elrond’s attention at once.  
  
“Is he well? If he has cajoled you into persuading me to take the bandage off his wrist; I told him yesterday it needs to stay on for at least another week, probably even longer. I know he wants to finally gallop and care for Gil, but that was a serious break. He needs to be patient.”  
  
“No, this is not about the bandage.” Legolas had to smile. Estel was eager to learn and explore, and his useless right hand was hindering him. For two weeks now the boy had been pestering Elrond (in his usual polite way) to take off the bandage. However, Elrond would not be swayed.   
  
“Did you know he is having nightmares?”  
  
Elrond sighed. “I feared this would occur. He has seen much darkness for one so young. I would imagine those things would return to haunt him. However, Estel is courageous, his strength amazes me. I think this is what helped him survive, a lesser man would have died long ago.” Elrond’s gaze clearly showed his awe at the boy’s survival instinct. “I am certain he will master those nightmares.”  
  
“I spoke with him yesterday. He does not remember his dreams, only that they are dark. This is sapping his spirit. I think it would be better if he could remember his past. I think it would help him move on,” Legolas said with conviction.  
  
“It might as well break him,” Elrond pointed out. “We do not know what has happened to him in the past. It might be wise to just let it lie.”  
  
Legolas would not be deterred. “You just admired his strength. Do you not trust him to be strong enough for this? He wants this.”  
  
When Elrond did not respond, Legolas went on, playing his trump card. “Do you not want to know?”  
  
“Know what?” Elrond asked, his brows drawn together in honest confusion.  
  
“Where Estel comes from. How he came to be a slave.” Legolas paused for dramatic effect. “Why he has an elvish name. Does that not make you wonder? The resemblance to Arathorn you spoke of, do you not want to know for certain?”   
  
Elrond had never again spoken of this, but Legolas was convinced it was still on the older elf’s mind. Arathorn had been a good friend to Elrond and the twins and they regarded his offspring their responsibility. Legolas suspected that Elrond had reasons for giving Estel the Dúnadan’s room that not even Elrond himself was ready to face. Legolas did not understand how Elrond could let such a chance slip away.  
  
“That is a coincidence.” The older elf spoke the sentence as if he had repeated it frequently over the last few weeks, in the hopes that it might finally ring true. Legolas could see hope and desperation war on Elrond’s face. He wanted to believe, he wanted Isildur’s heir found, but all the setbacks over the years had made him weary and stolen his hope.   
  
“It might be coincidence,” Legolas said. “It might be a sign. I have never known you to give up hope. Do not do so now, when the end of your search could be near.”  
  
Elrond had to smile at that. “You give good counsel, Legolas. Maybe we should try. For Estel’s sake, if not for mine. However, that still poses the question of how to go about it.”  
  
Elrond fell quiet for a moment. “You said you talked? What does he remember? Did he tell you anything more?”  
  
“He remembers his mother’s death. He must have been quite young, maybe five or six. He was sold shortly afterwards. Nothing about his father, though,” Legolas wisely left out the suspicion that had taken root in his heart after his talk with Estel. That would not help him here. “Nothing about how he became a slave. He was simply too young.”  
  
Elrond nodded absentmindedly. “There might be a way.” Legolas could practically see the other’s mind at work. “We see so much during our lifetimes. Even things we are not paying attention to are impressed upon our mind. We just choose never to remember those unimportant things. Our memory holds many hidden rooms we never touch on, maybe Estel’s past is safely stacked in away in one of those rooms, ready to be found. If that is the case, there is a good chance that we can return those memories to him. We just need a key to those hidden rooms. There is a way, I have just never tried it on a human.”  
  
Legolas would lose another match tonight, but he knew he had won the more important game. “You know Estel has an adventurous streak. That it is a remedy used only on elves will not stop him.”  
  
“Then we will try it. Let us hope you are right in your assumption and he really is strong enough for this.”  
  
Elrond’s demur haunted Legolas all through the night. However, he was determined to have faith in his young friend, even if Elrond was sceptical. They would try to revive the boy’s memories and they would succeed, this he vowed.  
  


~*~

  
It took another four days of research in his extensive library for Elrond to gather what he would need. It was not so much herbs that were required here, but the strong mind of a healer. Yes, there would be a potion, but it was only a means to an end. It was Elrond’s guidance that would hopefully bring back Estel’s memories and the elf lord was determined to be prepared as best as he could. As Elrond had anticipated, Estel had been bustling with nervous energy ever since Legolas had told him of Elrond’s consent. And of course the human had asked Legolas to be present as well.   
  
Now that the time had come and all three were preparing in Estel’s bedchamber, the boy seemed not frightened, but subdued. He was nervous of the outcome, just as Elrond and Legolas were. Estel sat on the side of his bed, Legolas next to him, tapping his foot and following all of Elrond’s movements like a hawk.  
  
Elrond himself had just finished mixing the potion Estel would need to drink, a vile-tasting liquid that the boy had to ingest in one go.  
  
“Are you certain about this?” Elrond asked one last time, standing before Estel, potion in hand. He had asked Estel this particular question repeatedly over the last few days. As had Legolas, despite his eagerness to regain Estel’s memory.  
  
Estel stopped the nervous movement of his foot and looked at Elrond. “Yes, I am. I want to remember, even if the memories are painful.” There was no mistaking the determination in his voice.  
  
Elrond just nodded, he had not expected the boy to back out at the last second. “All right. You will need to drink all of this. It will help relax your body and open your mind. It might feel a little like the moment right before falling asleep. Then I will guide you through your memory and we will see what we can find. Remember, whatever we encounter, this is all in the past. There is nothing to fear now, you are safe. You are with friends.”  
  
Elrond handed the cup to Estel and, in a bout of protectiveness, kissed the boy lovingly on the forehead. Legolas had told him how Estel had shied away from even the gentlest of touches right after the elf had found him. The boy had shed his inhibitions, and now readily sought affection, especially from Legolas. Yet, ever since showing Estel his rooms he had found his own rhythm with the boy and there were times when the human would seek out Elrond instead of Legolas.  
  
Estel just smiled and drained the cup in one go, making a face. “This is the worst drink I’ve ever had,” he complained and Legolas had to chuckle.   
  
“I think Elrond excels in making his potions and teas as horrible as possible. I am convinced it is a character trait,” he told Estel in a stage-whisper. The joke earned him a mock glare from Elrond, but the tense atmosphere in the room lightened a bit.  
  
“I don’t feel anything,” Estel interjected only moments after downing the vile drink, looking at his hands as if the potion would do its work there.  
  
“Now, do not rush things. It needs a few minutes. Let us just sit for a while.” In fact, only Legolas and Estel sat, still next to each other on the bed. Elrond stood in front of them, keeping an eye on the boy for any signs of the potion working. He made a conscious effort to stand still and not pace in front of the other two. He probably was as nervous as Estel about this.  
  
The minutes ticked by slowly without anyone speaking, until Estel took a slow and deep breath. And another. Legolas looked to Elrond and then took the boy’s hand in his. “Estel?” he asked. “How do you feel?”  
  
That earned him a minute smile from the boy who did not look at him, but instead was concentrating on his feet. “Feels warm,” he said, the words coming slowly. “Tingles.” And he smiled again. Elrond nodded at Legolas to confirm that this was a desired reaction. “Tingles in my toes,” Estel informed them and then his head fell onto Legolas’ shoulder, seemingly exhausted.   
  
“That is good, Estel. You had better lie down,” he proposed, nodding at Legolas who stood at once and took Estel’s legs while Elrond supported the boy’s pliant upper body. Together they laid him upon the bed, on top of the covers. Estel was still somewhat awake, but did not help them in their endeavour. “Tired,” he just said when both elves had seated themselves at his sides.  
  
“I want you to look into my eyes, Estel,” Elrond instructed and helped the boy turn his head. Estel managed to capture the elf’s eyes, but it was evident that his lids were leaden. And truly, after a few minutes they fell shut and his breathing became deep and slow.  
  
Elrond nodded at Legolas to let him know that everything went according to plan so far. Elrond took Estel’s wrist and measured the boy’s pulse. His body was slowing down, leaving his mind to wander. After a few minutes he laid his other hand upon Estel’s brow, his fingers brushing the boy’s forehead in measured, calming strokes, and began to speak so quietly that not even Legolas could understand what was being said. He told Estel to follow his voice, to trust his voice and together they would find their way back into Estel’s past. He told him he would not be alone in this quest, because Elrond’s voice was keeping him safe. He need not fear he told him, he was safe in his bed in Rivendell and no evil could befall him there.  
  
Long did Elrond speak thus, his voice leading Estel into a deep trance. When he was satisfied, his guiding voice stopped all of a sudden. There was no turning back now. He took a deep breath to collect his wits and then addressed Estel’s seemingly sleeping form in a calm and clear voice.  
  
“Open your eyes, Estel,” he commanded and the boy’s eyes opened at once. His empty gaze wandered and came to rest on Elrond’s face. The pupils were dilated, turning his eyes from their usual light grey into deep pools of black. Nothing of their usual colour was still visible.   
  
Elrond took up a candle he had sat upon the nightstand for that purpose and moved it in front of Estel’s eyes. There was no reaction. He did not follow the movement, and more importantly, his pupils did not react either. It was a sign that his mind was ready now. It was time to find out what Estel’s past held.  
  
He returned the candle to its position on the nightstand and held Estel’s gaze when he said, “Let us begin.”

_TBC_

**Chapter End Notes:**  
\- Chapter title taken from the Staind album “Break the Cycle”  
\- Elrond and Legolas are actually playing chess, “Aranotyalië” is my poor attempt at translate “the king’s game” into Sindarin. And for anyone who’s interested: The old Persian name for the “bishop” really is “píl”, which means elephant. So I’m not too far off with mûmakil.  
\- Elrond’s method of returning Estel’s memory to him is actually my made-up Middle Earth version of hypnosis. A lot of artistic license has been used here, but the candle test really is a sign for a deep trance.


	9. Traumaworld

**8\. Traumaworld**  
  
Legolas had been taken by surprise when Estel suddenly opened his eyes to reveal two pools of deepest black. The boy’s eyes seemed impossibly wide like this and their usual spark had all but vanished. Legolas could not see _Estel_ in those eyes and it disquieted him; it seemed the human’s consciousness, all the things that made up his personality, had retreated to some secret place. The boy’s fixed gaze rested on Elrond now, his body motionless on the bed. Legolas had to make a conscious effort not to panic at the lifeless appearance of his young friend. There was no danger here, Estel was safe, and they would finally unravel his secret.  
  
“Let us begin,” Elrond said then in a low voice, quiet and measured, yet commanding. The elf lord still had his hand on Estel’s pulse point, his eyes concentrating on the boy’s face.   
  
“Where are you now?” Elrond asked, obviously not yet ready to plunge right into the questions that needed to be asked.  
  
“In Rivendell,” Estel said in a flat and emotionless voice. He spoke slowly, yet the words were clear and easy to understand. It sounded as if he was not really here with them, like his voice was answering without his mind involved. A strange notion, but Legolas would not question the finer points of this method if Estel’s detachment meant he would be spared at least part of the pain this would bring.  
  
“How did you come to be here? Can you tell me?” Elrond was still treading safe ground.  
  
“Legolas found me. I had spilled the food and had to walk behind the cart. But I was ill, I stumbled. Choked on the collar and broke my wrist. They decided to leave me there, Harte took off the chain and then he wanted to kill me. Put his hand over my face to smother me. And then Legolas came.”  
  
Legolas looked to Elrond, whose face was still an impassive mask. He had not known that the boy had been suffocated. He suddenly remembered his panicked reaction when Elrond had placed the cloth over his nose and mouth. No wonder Estel had been frightened then!  
  
“How long did you live with those people?” Elrond asked next. Estel did not even blink, Legolas noticed. His eyes stared lifelessly ahead.  
  
“Long. Almost always,” Estel answered.  
  
“And where were you before?” Legolas unconsciously leant forward to hear better, even if Estel’s voice was by no means too low for him to understand.  
  
“With Ma, somewhere south,” came the answer. Legolas could see Elrond pondering how to best go about the next question.  
  
“I want you to go back to that time. Remember your mother for me. Where are you? What do you do?”  
  
Estel’s answer came immediately. “We are with a landowner. He has lots of other slaves, but we live in the house. I go wherever I please, but Ma works for Vorras. Sometimes I see her do the laundry by the river. Sometimes Vorras orders her into his room and then she is gone for the whole evening. When she comes back to our room she cries on her bed and thinks I cannot hear. Once I see them both in the kitchen. Ma is kneading bread, she leans over the huge table, her arms are white from the flour. Vorras is behind her, standing very close to her. He has his hands on Ma and pushes her forward. Ma sees me and tells me to go outside and play. Vorras laughs, telling her she should be less prim or he would move on to younger prey. He looks at me then. I don’t like him.”  
  
Elrond’s face was devoid of any emotion, but Legolas felt shocked. He did not know what exactly he had expected, but it was not a woman who had to pay with her own body to keep her son’s innocence.   
  
“Can you describe her to me, Estel?”  
  
“She is tall and lean. Later she is thin and her face haggard. She has dark hair like me, but it is long. It hangs almost down to her waist and when she works she always has it in a thick braid. When we have time, she allows me to drag my fingers through her locks to untangle them. Her eyes are blue. When she is angry with me her eyes turn hard, but mostly they are smiling eyes.”  
  
“What happens to her?”  
  
“She dies.” Nothing more that than, and Elrond had to pry a little deeper.  
  
“How does she die, penneth?”  
  
“In the end she is often with Vorras for hours. She doesn’t even cry anymore. When we get our food she takes a few bites and then pushes the plate over to me. I eat, because I’ve been outside all day and I’m hungry. In bed, she turns to the wall and doesn’t kiss me goodnight. She starts coughing and her body is bent. She looks like an old woman. And then,” even here Estel’s voice did not falter or break, “one night she tells me that I have to live. Someone will find us, she promises me. I mustn’t give up. Then she says something in a strange language I don’t understand. She seems sad and we go to bed. I snuggle up to her and we sleep like this.”  
  
Legolas knew what would come, because he had heard part of this story already. “The next morning she doesn’t want to wake. Vorras comes in and shouts and rants. He says I ate all the food, made her life hard, that she died because of me. He should never have kept me, he tells me. They take Ma away and Vorras grabs my collar to keep me from following her. He shoves me into our room and locks the door from the outside. When he opens the door again, he has sold me and he gives me to Marga.”  
  
“What does your mother tell you before she dies? Remember! Concentrate on her voice. You do not know the language, but you can clearly hear her say it. What is it she tells you?” Elrond implored and Legolas held his breath. Estel was quiet for a moment. Then his lips moved, but no sound came. He seemed to try the words again and again, soundlessly. And then suddenly, he spoke in that dull monotone voice.  
  
“Ónen i-Estel Edain. Ú-chebin estel anim,” Estel said and Legolas felt like someone had punched him. It was Elvish. Estel’s mother had spoken Elvish to him. The suspicions about Estel’s true identity came back full force. Legolas chanced a quick glance at Elrond and even the great elven lord seemed surprised. They needed to dig deeper. They needed to find out what Estel’s mother had meant. Give hope to men?  
  
Elrond was quiet for some time and Estel continued to stare straight ahead as if waiting for further instructions. Legolas had so many questions, so many things he wanted to know about Estel. However, Elrond was the one to ask those questions. So far, they had only unravelled more mysteries.  
  
“Estel, I want you to go further back in time. Is there a time when you have not been with Vorras? When you are free?” Elrond seemed to have changed his tactic, leaving Estel’s time with Vorras alone.  
  
“Yes,” Estel answered, “when Da was still alive.” The answer came so easily now, Legolas realized, and was reminded of his midnight talk with the human when Estel had been unable to remember anything apart from slavery. He was also reminded of Estel’s fears concerning that landowner, but if his last answer was any indication, those at least could be put to rest.  
  
Elrond immediately latched on to this. “You are very young, but both your mother and your father are there. Can you remember such a time?”  
  
Estel’s emotionless eyes held Elrond’s gaze unflinchingly. “Yes,” he only answered.  
  
“Then tell me about the last memory you have of your father. What happens to him?” Legolas was certain he was not imagining the slight waver in Elrond’s voice. This was the question that would bring clarity about Estel’s past. It would either shatter or strengthen his inkling that this was indeed Arathorn’s son.  
  
“We are riding with a lot of people. I’m in front of Ma on her horse. She jokes with me and points out trees or flowers. Sometimes she lets me hold the reins. Da is riding in front. He often looks back to us and he smiles at me. When we stop for a break he lifts me off Ma’s horse and swings me around. I’m giggling, because it feels like I’m flying through the air, and Da is laughing. He has a dark beard, but when he laughs his teeth flash and his eyes sparkle. I love playing with Da, because when he is with the other men he is so serious and he sends me away when I interrupt him.  
  
“One of the men comes running back to our camp and he shouts at Da. They are all getting on their horses, but Da comes back to Ma and me and he hugs me and then embraces Ma and follows the other men. Ma carries me to the edge of the clearing and she tells me to hide in the bushes and not make a sound. I know when she is serious, so I cower there and she runs back to Da and then all those ugly beasts run into the clearing. There is shouting and arrows are released. I see an arrow pierce Da’s eye and he falls off his big horse and doesn’t move.”  
  
Legolas was concentrated on Estel’s tale, but he could hear Elrond’s shocked intake of breath. They all knew how Arathorn had died. The twins had found him and his rangers. They had been slaughtered. Arathorn’s eye had been pierced by an arrow, killing him instantly. The horse that had been loath to just leave its master had been stabbed with a crude orcish blade. All the rangers had been accounted for, except for Gilraen and her son. Elladan and Elrohir had spent three days in that clearing, burying the dead. They had come home with grave faces and slumped shoulders.  
  
“I promised Ma to be quiet, but when I see Da fall off the horse I make a sound and one of the beasts comes over, extending its hands into the underbrush. I squirm, but I can’t evade its grasp and it drags me out of the bush. Ma sees and runs over to us and she kicks and punches the creature. It jeers at us. I see now that none of the men can help us and only Ma and I are still there. The beast slaps us and drags us away. I look again at Da on the ground, because maybe he will move, but he doesn’t. The beast ties Ma’s hands and it takes us along. Good money, it says.”  
  
And there was the whole story. That was how Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, had died fourteen years ago. And that was also the reason why his wife and son had not been with the rest of the bodies. They had been taken prisoner, had been sold on a slave market, had gone through evil hands. And always Gilraen had hoped to be found. She had known there would be a search for her and the child. But it had taken too long. It had taken much too long.  
  
“Estel, I need to know. When your Ma talks to you and tells you to hide in the bushes, by what name does she call you?” Of course Elrond would need to make certain, Legolas thought. When all of Estel’s past had been revealed, Elrond needed to shed light into the last dark corner. There was no doubt left, but Elrond needed to hear it aloud, Legolas assumed.  
  
For the first time during the session, Estel refused to answer. The boy had never hesitated so far, had always answered instantly, yet now he was silent, not acknowledging Elrond’s question.  
  
“This is important, Estel,” Elrond tried again. “You have to tell me by what name your mother calls you!” He used the tone of voice that had the twins cowering in misery when Elrond caught them doing some mischief or other.  
  
“Never tell. It’s our big secret, she says,” Estel answered weakly and Legolas could see the strain on the boy.  
  
“Do not fear,” Elrond soothes. “I promised you were safe here. Your secrets are safe here as well. Tell me the name!” And Elrond’s gaze bore down on the defenseless boy and he had no other option but to answer.  
  
“Aragorn,” he breathed. “She calls me Aragorn.” Legolas could see Elrond all but crumble next to Estel’s bed. Elrond had probably shared Legolas’ suspicions about Estel’s identity, even if the elf lord had never said so in Legolas’ company. To hear it out in the open like this was still unexpected. The Heir of Isildur was here, in this very room with them. The long lost son was finally found, after so many years of fruitless searches. Hope had been returned to Elrond and his family, Legolas realized suddenly. Hope, indeed.  
  
“Elrond,” Legolas called the other elf in a low voice when Elrond did not seem to come out of his daze. They needed to bring this to an end before Elrond could let the grief take him.  
  
“Yes, of course,” the lord of Rivendell mumbled and concentrated again on the boy on the bed.  
  
“You did well, Estel. I know you are tired. You can sleep now. Yes, sleep.” Elrond’s voice turned deep and low and he repeated his order until Estel’s eyelids fluttered and the boy’s eyes eventually closed. Elrond kept his hand on the boy’s wrist for another minute, counting the pulse in his head, and then with a nod let go of the human and stood abruptly.  
  
Legolas stood with him. He had no wisdom to offer to Elrond, but he would try his best.  
  
“How could it have come to this? How could I have let this happen?” Elrond was speaking mostly to himself, and Legolas could hear defeat and self-loathing in the other’s voice.  
  
“This is not your fault, my lord. You did all you could. Your sons have been searching for him all this time, but Arda is a big place.” Only now Legolas began to understand their luck. The twins had been searching for Aragorn high and low, they had been to places that were not on any maps. Strange and dangerous places. They had tried so hard. And then Legolas found Aragorn not three days from Rivendell. They had been so unbelievably lucky. Elbereth’s good grace must have shone down on all of them this day.  
  
“I failed him. I failed Arathorn. I lost hope long ago. I should not have. I am an elf and I could not even keep up hope for fourteen years. What are fourteen years to an immortal? But what are fourteen years to a human? What were those fourteen years to Estel? Pain, loss, slavery. It was his childhood. He can never get that back. We should have tried harder to find them both.”  
  
“There is nothing else you could have done. Do not dwell on the past. What has been done, cannot be undone. We have to work on the future, that is still open to us. Estel has so much to learn, to experience, to explore. Let us aid him in that. Let us make better memories for him. Your hope is back, Elrond, do not turn it away.”   
  
The older elf seemed to rally at the words. “We will do that, yes. We will be a family for him, my sons and I. And you will be a friend for him, as you have been these past weeks. Yes, it is not too late.” To Legolas it seemed Elrond was steeling himself for what was to come. He would have to put his own feelings aside and console Estel when the boy woke. Only then would they know whether he was really strong enough to bear all these memories.  
  
“Someone should sit with Estel. He should not be alone when he wakes,” Legolas said. He would gladly take up the task. He wished to speak with the boy, but he knew Elrond needed to be the one to have that talk.  
  
“I will stay,” Elrond answered as predicted. “We have much to talk about, Estel and I.”  
  
Legolas left Estel’s chambers then. He knew he would not find sleep tonight. Neither would Elrond.  
  
The elf haunted Estel’s rooms, sitting by the bed or admiring the view from the large window. The events of the past hours had made him restless. He watched Estel sleep through the night, for once undisturbed by dark dreams. Elrond had fully expected that he would have to wake the boy from a nightmare during the night, but nothing of the like happened. The boy slept, giving Elrond time to ponder all that had been revealed. It felt like a weight had been taken off his heart, now that Isildur’s Heir had been found. It was replaced by another weight, but this one was smaller, welcome even. There was much do now, much to decide. Estel would need to learn: languages, history, lore, archery, swordfighting, tracking. They would need to prepare him for the future that was suddenly given back to all of them, and Elrond was already planning who in Rivendell would be best suited to take up the different tasks. In addition, as Legolas had said they would need to make certain that Estel could make better memories for himself. Elrond was determined to do just that. He would give him a home and a family, he would open his heart even more than he had already done so far. Estel deserved no less.  
  


~*~

  
Consciousness returned slowly, as did the memory of what had happened. Estel felt the comfortable cushions beneath him, smelt the fragrance from the flowering trees outside and knew he was in his bedroom in Rivendell. They had unravelled his past and for a moment Estel was overwhelmed by his conflicting emotions. There was a sharp pang of grief and regret, for suddenly the loss of his parents was fresh in his mind again. It felt as if they had died yesterday, and he had the desperate urge to hold on to them, to keep them in this world. To keep them beside him, so he would not be alone.  
  
Yet, he also felt content. His own existence had been cut off from everything. He had been without past, without family, just one human drifting aimlessly on this wide earth. Now though, the memory of his parents was restored to him and with that a whole collection of little memories that swarmed his mind. They comforted him and he instinctively knew they would keep him company in the years to come.  
  
He must have made a sound, because suddenly Estel felt someone else near. He opened his eyes to see Elrond rush over to him, wearing a concerned expression.   
  
“Estel, how do you feel?” he asked, leaning down to him and trying for a smile.  
  
“I am well,” he answered, determined to hold on to the feelings of warmth and security.  
  
“You are not,” Elrond retorted. It was a statement, not a question. “I need to talk to you. Do you want to sit on the balcony with me?”   
  
It was early yet, the sun was just rising. However, Estel felt as if he had lain on his back long enough. He knew Elrond would want to speak about his past and he was not entirely sure he could put in words what he felt.  
  
He simply nodded and got off the bed. Making a detour to the large wardrobe in the living room, he grabbed a warm tunic before following Elrond outside. The elf had brought the coverlet and lovingly draped it around Estel as soon as he sat down. The feeling of belonging flared to life again at these actions.  
  
They sat a while without speaking, each of them trying to determine where they stood now with each other. Estel would not speak first. He did not know what to say. Too many thoughts were flying through his mind.  
  
Finally, Elrond spoke. “When I gave you these rooms, do you remember what I told you?”  
  
He had not expected that question. Estel had been certain Elrond would want to know more about his parents, about their deaths, his time with Vorras and later Marga. How did this question relate to all the new information they had found?  
  
He only nodded, unsure of where the question was leading. “Yes, you said it housed kin of yours.”  
  
Estel had often wondered at that. Elrond had seemed sad and subdued when he had told Estel of these things. Therefore, Estel had never asked again, not wanting to intrude where he was not wanted.. He was curious, though. He could not exactly understand how all these men could be Elrond’s kin.  
  
“Yes, it did,” Elrond affirmed. “I told you they were leaders of men, and that the last of them was lost to us. His party was attacked by orcs. All the rangers in that group died that day, all but he and his mother.”  
  
At his words, Estel felt dizzy with shock. That was his story, was it not? It was impossible...  
  
“My sons have been searching for them ever since. Just now they are searching the north for word of them.” Elrond paused for a moment and instinctively Estel knew what would come next. “You are that man, Estel. You are the last of my distant kin and these rooms are rightfully yours, always have been. We are family after all.”  
  
So these elves had missed him all those years, had even searched for him. During all the bleak years with Marga and Harte, Elrond’s sons had searched for him. Who knew how often they had brushed right past him, missing him by a hair’s breadth? It did not matter. The simple fact that his life had mattered to someone seemed a miracle to Estel.  
  
“Family?” He asked tentatively, trying out the unfamiliar word, liking the feelings it evoked in him. Elrond’s remedy had not only brought his parents back to him. It had also opened the door to a new family. One that was still here, still alive. Yet, his thoughts were with the dead for a moment.  
  
“Then you knew my father?” His voice was hopeful.  
  
“Yes, I knew your father,” Elrond smiled at him. “He lived in these rooms for a few years. Do you remember the figurines you noticed the first time you were here?” Of course he remembered the figurines. “They were your father’s. He said he received them as a gift.”  
  
Estel was now looking back into his bedroom, trying to discern by his gaze alone whether any other family heirlooms would reveal themselves. The rooms suddenly appeared to be one huge chest full of treasure. He only needed to lift the lid and a whole new world would open up to him. Who knew what else awaited him. The pictures? The clothes? Maybe his father had written with one of the quills. He felt his parents near, as if their life still lingered in those rooms even though their spirits had fled this world.  
  
Estel was still staring back into his bedroom, willing the inanimate objects to speak to him and reveal their secrets, when Elrond spoke again. “There are many other things to show and tell you.” Estel heard the promise in those words.   
  
“I have a family. I have a past,” Estel repeated as much to himself as for Elrond’s benefit. It became more real with every moment. “I want to thank you,” he said. “You gave me back my memories, and even though most of them are sad, at least my parents’ faces are clear in my mind now. I can see my mother as if she stood before me. And I see my father’s smiling face, shortly before those orcs attacked.” He closed his eyes for a minute, and truly, their faces came back to him instantly. The memory was so vivid, Estel thought he could touch them if only he tried.  
  
“I can never thank you enough for giving that back to me.” He would be forever indebted to Elrond for this precious gift.  
  
“I have to ask your forgiveness then,” Elrond surprised him by saying. “For fourteen years we tried to find you and your mother, and I admit I lost hope that the twins would ever be successful. I failed you, as I failed your father. I am only glad that you managed to hold out for as long as you did, and that Legolas found you in the end. We came too late for your mother, though...”  
  
That was dangerous territory. He was thankful to be here, in this place and with these people, and for a short moment Estel felt anger towards his mother for giving up when she had known there was a chance of rescue. However, she had told him to go on, to never give up. He would honour that request.  
  
“Maybe my mother had lost hope just like you. I’m glad I’m here now, to dwell on the past would only diminish what I have now.” It was not Elrond’s fault that his mother was not here with him.   
  
“You are wise beyond your years,” Elrond praised. “Still, I would have you enjoy the last years of your childhood you still have. You have to make up for a lot of things.”  
  
 _True,_ Estel thought to himself. His life had been spent working, fearing, despairing. Since he lived in Rivendell though, a whole other world had opened up to him. He could learn, laugh and enjoy himself. He never wanted to give that up.  
  
“I have one question, though,” Estel said. “What about my name? Why did my mother change it?” _Our big secret,_ he thought bitterly. He had lived his life detached from who he truly was. He had not even known his own name! He had been stripped of the first thing that made up one’s personality.  
  
He could see the question made Elrond uncomfortable and he wondered, why. Was the name tainted?  
  
“Estel, you are not just anybody. I know you will need time to get used to the fact that you are not a slave, but you are not a commoner either. Yours is a noble name, therefore your mother deemed it safer to keep it secret.” A noble name. Suddenly, he was not Estel, slave anymore. He was Aragorn, bearer of a noble name. He would bear it proudly, he vowed.  
  
“Is it still safer to keep the name secret?” He wanted that connection to his family, to his parents, acknowledged. He felt them near when he thought of himself as Aragorn. And the name would be a chance for a fresh start, a name that did not bear the dark memories of his time as a slave. He had never heard it shouted in contempt and anger. The name was innocent, a vessel he could fill to his heart’s delight. If only he was allowed to do so.  
  
“Actually, yes,” Elrond answered and Estel felt his hopes dwindle. “However, between kin there are no secrets,” the elf smiled. “Welcome to the family, Aragorn.”

_TBC_

Chapter End Notes:  
\- Chapter title taken from the Zeraphine album “Traumaworld”  
\- Ònen i-Estel Edain. Ú-chebin estel anim. This is, of course, shamelessly stolen from the LOTR appendix, “The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”. It is Gilraen’s final goodbye to Aragorn before she dies. Translation: “I give hope to men, I keep none to myself.”  
\- The fact that Estel can remember his parents in greatest detail is a little nod to shirebound’s story “Quarantined”, in which Gandalf gives back Aragorn an image of his father, whom he cannot remember. I always found that scene very endearing.


	10. Epilogue: Hope Regained

**Epilogue – Hope Regained**   


  
Estel sat not far from one of the great waterfalls that surrounded Rivendell. He had been here for nearly two months now and for a long time the ethereal beauty of his new home had seemed a dream to him. When he woke in the mornings his first look would go out the window, to make sure that he was still in that magic valley and that he still was free. This urge had abated now. Estel felt like he had finally arrived here – body and mind –, secure in the knowledge that Rivendell and all he held dear within would not just vanish like a dreamscape. Instead of quickly opening his eyes after he woke he had taken to keeping his eyes closed, playing a game that did not lose its appeal: He would imagine his bedroom, letting the furniture come to life in greatest detail. He would imagine the tree that stood in front of his window and the little bench that wound around its base. And after revelling in the details that came to life in his mind Estel would open his eyes and bask in the wonder that everything looked exactly as he had imagined it.   
  
He had found the waterfall on one of his many walks through Rivendell. The sight was magnificent, the cascades of water so powerful they could probably crush a man. But Estel did not feel endangered, instead the display gave him peace of mind. The waters came rushing down at great speed and with such force that a fine spray of droplets always permeated the air. If the sun was at the right position, a sparkling rainbow would hang in the air, adding another level of serenity to the scene before him. It helped him think.  
  
He had to smile. Those last weeks had been rocky. Yes, there had been tears. In the quiet hours of the night, when the faces of his parents filled his mind and stole his sleep, the graveness of what had happened to them – and to him – had stolen his breath. Sometimes Legolas would hear his sobs and enter quietly, gathering him into his strong arms wordlessly and comforting him until the sun came up and he had no more tears left to cry. Sometimes he just cried himself to sleep. He had never had the chance to say goodbye to either his father or his mother, and the bitter tears he cried now were the ones he should have cried years and years ago.  
  
The bandage around his wrist had come off two weeks ago. The hand did not hurt any more, but he had panicked when he had only barely been able to rotate his wrist. Elrond had promised him that the movement would come back in time, he just needed to constantly use and strengthen the limb. To have back the use of his right hand – at least partially – had opened many possibilities for him. Often Legolas or Elrond would find him in the stables, helping to care for the horses. Old Gil had practically become his horse and he would bring treats for the mare he secretly stole from the dinner table. And of course he would always have an extra apple for Legolas’ horse Tinnu, who enjoyed his added days of rest before his master had to return to Mirkwood. Estel’s bond with Tinnu had only strengthened and sometimes Legolas would let Estel ride the spirited horse.  
  
If he was not in the stables he would sit by this very waterfall and practice the beautiful elven letters until his notebook was damp from the water. There was much to occupy himself with, the days in Rivendell never grew long.  
  
The memory of his time as a slave and his pitiful existence was not fading, but he was able to push those things out of his mind for longer periods of time. From time to time he wondered how Shaya fared and felt a twinge in his heart for leaving her alone like this. She had been his spark of hope when there had only been darkness in his life and he felt guilty for abandoning her, even if that had not been his decision. Perhaps they would meet again in the years to come and he could thank her for being his light in a time when all he knew was despair.  
  
Estel was nervous today. Scouts had brought word that Elrond’s sons would return to Rivendell sometime during the day. Elladan and Elrohir they were called. Legolas had told him a lot about the twins and had promised him that he would like them. They would be his brothers after all and he was eager to finally meet them. He was also anxious to leave a good impression with them, even though Legolas had assured him that there was no need to worry.  
  
Estel needed to thank them, for searching for him, even if their search had been in vain. He also wanted to know everything they knew about his parents. Elrond had said they had often ridden with Arathorn. Estel now had a face and a name, but he wanted to fill those shells with memories and stories. He had to make a future for himself, but he also had to regain his past.   
  
So deep was he in thought, that he did not even hear the elf approach and he jumped when Legolas sat down gracefully beside him.  
  
“You look like you were trying to discover the meaning of life, my friend,” Legolas teased. “Those are heavy thoughts for a fine day like this.”  
  
Estel could laugh with Legolas now, something he had only learned in the last two months. It made him feel free and light and he wanted to feel like this unto the end of his days. “Yes, I was thinking. And any weather is suitable for that,” he teased right back.   
  
Legolas gave a musical laugh. “It is good to see that you have obviously mastered the art of easy banter. Otherwise you would be ill prepared to meet the twins today. You would stand no chance.”   
  
His nervousness about their meeting came back full force and must have shown on his face, because Legolas was quick to add, “Do not fear. They will like you, I promise. There is no reason to be nervous. And in any event, I will be staying here for a while longer. It would be unfair to let you stand alone against the force that is Elladan and Elrohir.” He winked.   
  
Yes, Legolas would stay a while longer. He was regularly writing dispatches to his father in which he constantly extended his stay in Rivendell. Thranduil was forgiving so far and Estel was grateful for the elf’s presence. He hoped Legolas would not leave for a long time, he would miss his friend. His friend, yes. The first person in his new life to ever show him compassion and love.  
  
“I’m glad you’re here with me, Legolas,” Estel said, out of blue.   
  
“And I am also glad that you are here with me,” Legolas answered and obviously meant much more than sitting by a waterfall in Rivendell. “But let us not get wistful on this fine day. I came down here to get you. The twins will arrive any minute now.”  
  
Estel took a deep breath. This was it. He felt comfortable around Elrond and Legolas, he felt loved and wanted. But here were two additions to his new family he had yet to meet. Would they allow him into their lives? Or would they reject this jaded human with the dark past?   
  
There was only one way to find out. Legolas had already gotten to his feet and had turned to go.  
  
“Estel, hurry or we will miss their arrival. Let us get back to the house.”  
  
He looked expectantly at Estel and finally the boy stood and turned in the direction of the Last Homely House as well. The twins would like him, just as he would like the twins. They would spend all their time together and they would tell him about his father. There was nothing to fear, but the world to gain.  
  
“Yes,” Estel answered, “let’s go home.”  
  
 _\- The End  
_

_(April 2006)_


End file.
